


light of the fireflies

by torasame



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Library, Books, Dreams of the future, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, They talk about books a lot, inspired by while you were sleeping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torasame/pseuds/torasame
Summary: In a world where dreamers lie and books reveal the inner workings of one's soul, Tsukishima and Kuroo find each other.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 57
Kudos: 90





	1. people capable of believing

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are at last.
> 
> This idea went through multiple revisions and has been sitting in my mind for a good half of the year. It was originally meant to be a sort of Kimi No Nawa AU but I revised it into the frameworks of the drama called While You Were Sleeping. To put it simply, this fic is an excuse to have krtsk geek over books with a hint of the surrealism I tend to enjoy.
> 
> IMPORTANT:  
> There are going to be a few spoilers pertaining the books I use so I'll be leaving the titles in the notes for reference. I doubt I'll give much away, but it's still something to point out. I will be adding more tags in the future and the warnings might change as the chapters progress so please be mindful of that as well.  
> I don't have a rigid updating schedule, so I apologize in advance if chapters come in at random intervals.  
> Chapter updates will be available on [my twitter](https://twitter.com/zygosoji)  
> PREFACE:  
> While You Were Sleeping is essentially a show about a few people who can see the future in their dreams. There's no specified limit as to how far into the future one can see and there usually a handful of clues that can help estimate when certain events take place. I took a bit of liberties with this idea, but it was inspired by the show nonetheless.  
> The books referenced in this chapter are:  
> Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki by Haruki Murakami; and  
> No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai  
> I stuck to using Japanese classics so I can't entirely say this is societally accurate, but I will try my best.
> 
> last but not the least, thank you to Jell, Chi and Kou for reading through the previews and helping my indecisive ass decide. This chapter would have (literally) never been published with out you lot.
> 
> Anyways that's all for now, I'll try to get the second chapter up and running soon to avoid all the confusion and awkwardness of the introduction. Hope you all are safe and well. Happy reading.

> _"We truly believed in something back then, and we knew we were the kind of people capable of believing in something— with all our hearts. And that kind of hope will simply never vanish." —Haruki Murakami_

* * *

Tsukishima is in second year now. The thought hits him out of the blue, while he’s staring straight ahead at the board. He’s in second year now. He’s been one for quite a while but it’s only really sunk in now. It’s as though everything leading up to this point just settled onto his subconsciousness, like time decided to catch up on him within the blink of an eye. Or maybe he’s just been going with the current, too occupied with nothingness to notice he’s washed up on a shore. Regardless, the thought kicks in, though he isn’t entirely sure what to do with it. He spares a gaze to the window (he’s still been assigned the seat closest to it) and finds the cherry blossoms blooming in the courtyard. The trees are thinner now and the spring isn't as cold anymore.

They aren’t doing much. School work is bound to pile up sooner or later and some part of him waits to pinpoint the shift. For the transition of casual getting-to-know-yous to formal lessons. He isn’t exactly sure why he’s busying himself with such detail when he doubts he won’t be able to remember it in a few months time. But as of the moment, they’re in the divide, with a few course works here and there before the pace begins to pick up. He gets through them between class periods.

It takes a little while for the bell to ring and for the routine sound of chairs scraping the floor and waves of people moving about. He reaches for his headphones in his bag, fastening them onto his ears and blasting whatever song the shuffle landed on. Yamaguchi barely has time to wave at him when he’s rushing out the classroom and disappears into the hallway. Tsukishima makes no effort to wave back.

The sky is still a clear blue when he walks home. His brother greets him at the door as he slips off his shoes and positions them to face the door. He drops his bag off in his room before running a shower. He joins his mother and brother at the dinner table shortly after.

“The book you ordered a few weeks ago arrived,” his mother announces as she passes him his serving of rice. He doesn’t mind the small helping she adds on. “You can go to Tokyo to pick it up tomorrow.”

“Do you need me to get anything?” From the corner of his eye, he can see Akiteru open his mouth to speak. “I’m asking mum.” He says pointedly. 

He takes his phone out to list down the items his mother dictated and reluctantly includes the few Akiteru pipped in. _You’re an adult,_ he comments, _you should go get it yourself._ Akiteru threw his head back in a theatrical sigh, saying something about his lack of funds as a college student. Tsukishima slaps him on the forearm.

He helps clear the table and loads his dishes into the sink before heading up to his room. Tsukishima reaches for the novel on his bedside table. He dusts it off habitually, though it’s never laid out for long enough to collect any. He flicks the pages to the number in his mind, his headphones are back on his ears and the world fades with music and words.

It’s a little bit past eleven in the evening when his eyes and mind grow heavy. He shuts the book, committing the page to memory before he sets it aside with his phone and glasses. He switches off the lamplight, takes a breath, and falls into dreamless sleep.

* * *

Tsukishima blinks himself awake once the light filters in from the curtains. He gets up, runs a light shower and pulls on his clothes for the day. _It’s one of those days_ , something in the back of his mind says, _one of those days you won’t remember in the near future._

He makes his way to the door, wallet and phone in hand. He pulls on his shoes and announces his leave. His mother and Akiteru chorus back in unison before he’s out the door. He rolls up the sleeves of his jumper in the absence of the usual spring cold. An English band is playing faintly in the background. There’s only about a quarter left of the way when there’s a ring between one of the songs. Tsukishima pulls it out of his pocket, shielding it from the sun to make out the words. He stops dead in his tracks.

_Hey, this is going to sound weird but_

There’s another ping.

_Don’t take the train today._

If he looks up, he’ll be able to make out the outline of the station in the distance. There’s a sense in his gut that heeds the words. _It could be another one of those spam texts,_ he rationalizes. He considers it being Akiteru with a new number, but his brother hadn’t gotten a new phone for as far as he knew. It didn’t sound like his older brother, nor did it sound like his mother or anyone he knew directly. There was no familiar weight to these lines of texts. 

There’s a part of him that proceeds with caution and it convinces him to leave it unanswered. He continues his walk to the station, he consciously goes over each and every lyric to distract himself. The unexplainable gut feeling continues to gnaw at him. He swipes his student card, pushing along the inexcessive crowd of people walking down the different lines. Tsukishima finds his own line and stops in front of the monitor announcing the train times. He sees the one he had planned on taking; the digits burn against the screen like they’re screaming at him. He doesn’t hear them over the music in his ears. 

_Don’t take the train today._

He weighs the options and resigns to heading to the platform. He shifts his weight around on his feet, staring at the clouds in the sky. It doesn’t take long for his train to arrive and for the wind to lightly brush the bangs off his forehead. An idle amount of people board, but his feet remain planted, condemning himself to his own intuition. The next train arrives in twenty minutes which means he isn’t entirely off schedule (and it isn’t as though he’s in any rush in the first place.)

The digital intercom of the train announces the doors closing. He hears the gears shift and the train move forward. He stands alone on the platform for a moment before he turns and climbs the steps, making his way to another platform.

He doesn’t have time to second-guess his decision when a chime plays from the speakers and the announcer’s voice cuts through the air. 

_“Attention everyone, the 9:40 train bound for (-) station has been delayed. Someone has been struck by the train. We apologize for the inconvenience.”_

There’s minimal stirring in the few commuters around him while the announcement is repeated in English. He pulls out his phone and stares at the strange words from the unknown number. Was this the reason? Was this confirmation?

He switches his phone off, alternating between switching it back on as though it were a visual representation of the options weighing in his mind. Would it be too presumptuous to decide? Too naive to simply believe? Too rash to text back?

The train pulls up in front of him. He pockets his phone and heads inside, taking an unoccupied seat in the relatively unfilled car. He glances up at the time and eyes the route leading to Tokyo. He’s got three hours to kill before they reach the final station. He spends most of it scrolling through news articles on his phone, (though he doesn’t really care for them) contemplating if he should have brought a novel with him instead but thinks better of it given the added weight. He starts typing part of the small essay for his literature class and by the time he’s filled the third question, the intercom voice announces that they’ve arrived.

He talks a fairly well worn path toward the library. He sets his headphone onto his shoulders, previous thoughts temporarily forgotten in the Tokyo springtime. Tsukishima has grown fairly used to navigating his way through the city alone ever since his father’s business grounded itself in the United Kingdom. Looking back, it’s been quite a while since his father had first taken him to the Tokyo Metropolitan Library. 

It’s Tsukishima’s destination right after a light lunch at a nearby café. He walks through the doors, taking in the distinct smell that’s forever planted in his memory. He lingers among the shelves before venturing to the counter. He gives his name and the details of his order. The librarian offers him a polite smile and asks him to wait patiently before he heads to a row of shelves. It doesn’t take longer than a moment for him to return with a book in hand. Tsukishima exits the library shortly after with the paper bag tucked under his arm.

He manages to locate a nearby convenience store to run his errands. It’s not long before he finds himself back on the train with the little groceries and paper bag seated on his lap as he watches the clouds rush past through the windows. Tsukishima alternates between staring listlessly at the scenery and typing up the rest of the essay on his phone. It’s finished by the time the train pulls up at the final stop. He stretches a little once he steps off.

“I’m home,” he announces when he steps out of his shoes and tucks them away. His mother welcomes him back from somewhere in the kitchen. He steps through the doorway and presents the bag and helps her put away the contents into their designated cabinets. He keeps his steps light as he’s approaching the hallway up the stairs. With little warning, he opens Akiteru’s room and tosses packets in his direction. He barely manages to catch them when they fall unceremoniously on his stomach or onto the floor. Tsukishima pretends not to hear his brother’s protests when he shuts the door and heads for the bathroom.

Once he deems his hands and hair dry he makes quick work of unsealing the bag. He pulls the book out and sets it on his desk, running a hand over the plastic wrapped cover. _Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage,_ the characters read. It’s the third Murakami book he owns and the newest release of the year. 

_“Aren’t you a little too young for these kinds of books, Kei?”_ His mother has said when he had initially picked up his first one. His father laughed before he could respond.

“ _He’s always been a little too mature for his age,”_ he said, _“I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s fifteen now, after all.”_

He raises the book as he opens it. Tsukishima flicks past the first few pages but finds a piece of notebook paper lodged between them. He takes it out, wondering if it was one of the slips the library used to mark books. Perhaps someone had left it in there with the intention of coming back for it. Tsukishima unfolds the parchment and finds his breath catching in his throat.

_I hope you’re alright._

_I apologize again if this seems sort of creepy, but I figured you were the kind of person who needed concrete evidence to believe what I’m about to tell you._

_To get straight to the point— I had a dream about what would happen today. About the person who jumped in front of the train and the book you were planning to pick up. In the spur of the moment I couldn’t exactly detail it to you fully, but my gut told me that despite my cryptic message, you would still end up taking the train to Tokyo even if it wasn’t the one you were initially intending to._

_I couldn’t exactly meet you in person (though I doubt it would have been necessary) but I decided to leave this note just in case._

_You can disregard this entirely. I understand this must be a lot to believe and I have to admit that I too find it difficult to process._

_All in all, I just hope you’re doing okay._

And that was it. No sign off, no name, and no expectation of any further contact.

Tsukishima takes a breath. He reads over the words once more, just to confirm that they are in fact real and are in fact speaking of futuristic dreams before he pulls out his phone. He finds the contact spelled in an unknown number and the messages he left unanswered.

_I believe you._

Tsukishima hits send.

* * *

_He never dreamed. But even if he had dreamed, even if the dreamlike images arose from the edges of his mind, they would have found nowhere to perch on the slippery slopes of his consciousness, instead quickly sliding off, down into the void._

_(5.)_

* * *

There’s a silence that follows. Tsukishima receives no reply in the days that pass and the thoughts of the strange encounter resigned to slipping into the back of his mind.

The trees in the courtyard are empty now. He can’t exactly place when the spring ends. Perhaps it hasn’t. Maybe it lingers with the residue of pink flowers left on the grounds. Maybe it remains with the cold wind still flitting through the breeze. He wonders when anyone can accurately pinpoint when happenstances like these come to an end. When does the tide shift? When does the world decide to keep turning?

He wonders about these things when he finds himself in class again. Lessons have officially begun which has him drifting between these thoughts and the topic at hand. Between gazing into an untouchable space and jotting down notes in his notebook. Sometimes, he does neither. He tucks the novel between his bigger textbooks and reads in and in between his classes. His teachers don’t mind as much either way, a few remind him gently the first couple times, but it doesn’t take long for them to turn the other cheek. As long as he performs well enough and answers their questions, they’re in no room to argue with his reading habits.

The book starts with Tsukuru barely clinging on to life. It opens with his pondering on death and how simple it was to just slip through it. Like it was just a door he needed to go through but couldn’t bring himself to open. He’s caught in the divide, wandering like a soulless vessel. It all comes down to his sudden exclusion from his highschool group of four. Life as he knew it was thrown off its axis without warning. It was as though he had one day woken up in a coffin and the lid just slammed shut. It was as though he was waiting for whoever was outside to finally bury him in the ground.

It keeps Tsukishima busy for the day. He barely looks up from the book during breaks and only puts it down to eat his lunch. When the school day is deemed over, he takes his belongings, and walks home with the book in his hand and music streaming through his headphones.

_“People change,” Sara said._

_“True enough,” Tsukuru said. “People do change. And no matter how close we once were, and how much we opened up to each other, maybe neither of us knew anything substantial about the other.”_

He’s nearing the end of page a hundred and eighteen when the silence breaks. He stops midstep, just a few metres away from his own home when he receives the text. Tsukishima continues his stride without reading the words. He shuts the book and makes the rest of the way home with the words of a song he can’t seem to hear.

* * *

_You’re going to have your first test in physics soon._

_I saw it this morning and it looked like most of you were caught off guard._

_So I thought it’d be better if I told you._

He taps his fingers against his desk before he picks up his phone to respond.

_Thanks._

The response comes a moment later.

_No problem._

_Are your dreams…_ he pauses. It’s a silent deliberation before he continues. _Are your dreams only about me?_

_They are, for the most part._

_I’m sorry if it seems so sudden_

_But what made you decide to believe me_

Tsukishima finds his eyes darting around the room. He finds the note tucked beneath the paperweight on his desk.

_You left me with pretty solid evidence_

He tries to imagine the faceless being behind the random sequence of numbers. He sees a smile in the blur. It’s the sensation of faux deja vu; when something unknown to you seems ever so familiar. He hears a laugh in his mind and he wonders if there was some chance he had heard it before.

_You’re right haha, I guess I was right to take you as that kind of person after all._

* * *

_You asked how I decided to believe you_

_But I wonder how you brought yourself to believe it as well._

_You make me sound so certain._

_I have to admit, it’s still a lot to take in._

_But I guess it just felt so real, y’know?_

_And maybe it was partially a shot in the dark,_

_I guess the evidence sort of proved it to us both._

_I guess you’re right._

* * *

He doesn’t get through much of the book in the next few days. He gathers more notes on the subject, he goes over what he’s gathered a little more before the expected date. The unknown number tells him it’s probably going to happen between Thursday or Friday.

He lays in the dark once he turns out the lights. He spares a side glance at the corner of his window, gazing for the stars through his blurry eyes. Tsukishima counts silently in his mind, though he slowly begins to lose track of the number and retains his consciousness. He can’t help but keep his eyes open a little longer before he finally shuts them and lays further back into his pillow.

And for the first in a long time, Tsukishima dreams.

* * *

_Yamaguchi_

_We’re going to have a physics test soon._

_Really?_

_Did someone make the announcement?_

_No, I just had a feeling._

There’s a silence he can sense. He can practically hear Yamaguchi’s thoughts as the three dots hop every so lightly in the text bubble on the screen. _By feeling,_ he imagines Yamaguchi’s voice in his mind, _by feeling, you mean…?_

The three dots morph into words: _I guess I’ll have to trust your intuition then! Thanks for the heads up, Tsukki!_

He lets the conversation end there. 

* * *

The test took place on a Friday.

* * *

  
  


_How did it go?_

_It went well._

_That’s good to hear._

_Thank you again._

_For the heads up, I mean._

_It’s nothing._

_Your teachers should have told you beforehand._

_That’s true._

_But it was full of the fundamentals anyway, it wasn’t too difficult._

_Makes sense._

_Ah, highschool life was so much easier._

_You make yourself sound older than you probably are._

_Or older than I’m estimating, rather._

_Oh?_

_I wouldn’t want you going around believing I was some old man._

_Which I’m not._

_Just getting that out of the way._

_Didn’t take you as one._

_The evidence leaves some other hints as well._

_And what exactly have you deduced, Mr Detective?_

_Given your note, I’d guess you’re probably still a student._

_University is my guess._

_You got it pretty spot on._

_Speaking of college, I’ll need to excuse myself._

_Unlike you, our exams do not have the liberty of simply being about “the fundamentals.”_

_Have a goodnight then._

_You too._

* * *

Kuroo is in his first year of university. It’s not much to take in, but it’s a notable shift in the paradigm of his day-to-day life. It’s the transition from carefree teenager to preparatory adult. There are only four years separating him from the real world. The fact hits him like a splash of cold water on certain days. But the temperature is slowly growing on him.

The first few weeks were quite monotonous in nature. He shifts himself to adjust with new procedures and terms. He makes acquaintances here and there, makes trips to the store for meals he could heat in his dorm, and spends the rest of the night going over piles of articles and notes. 

When he decides to call it a night after squinting over at the clock for the time, he flops onto his bed and sinks into slumber, quietly dreading the hours left before the inevitable ringing of his phone alarm to rouse him for another day.

That was until the dreams started.

He remembers each of them vividly. He sees them moving like a film in his mind. Each varied in length, all sporadic and always about the same person. It took him a moment to realize it was the blonde boy from Karasuno.

They had exchanged mere words at the practice match between his team and Nekoma back in Kuroo’s last year. He recalls that it was their very last meeting. He doubts neither of them know each other’s names.

And yet, he was dreaming of him.

The first dream was the shortest. He caught a glimpse of him walking to school on the day he assumed to be the very first of the year. Kuroo could feel the tingle of the spring breeze that was always a little colder outside of Tokyo. He doesn’t brush the phenomenon off; he treats it with tentative apprehension. 

The next few follow in a similar manner. They all centre around different instances of the unnamed blonde. From the way he gazes out the window for a space beyond that of what most would see. The way he twirls his pencil offhandedly as though deliberating if anything the teacher was saying was of value before jotting whatever he seems important down. From the music he decides to listen to from bands Kuroo has only heard of in passing, from the idle chat in his dining room with his mother and brother. And most notably, the novel by his bedside he keeps going back to.

A week passes before he decides to do something.

He phones Kenma without second thought, the latter expressing a hint of surprise.

_Why are you calling so early in the morning?_ Kenma asks past the sleep still hanging in his voice. Kuroo doesn’t have time to point out the fact that his best friend must have spent the entire night in front of a game again.

_You want me to get_ what? He repeats himself. He asks for the unnamed blonde’s number via Karasuno’s shrimp. Kuroo is certain Kenma has unworded questions in the back of his throat but he says nothing and obliges. Kenma hangs up and messages him the number a few minutes later.

It gives Kuroo enough time to continually process what he had seen.

Karasuno’s middle blocker makes his way into the train car, he turns his phone volume down as he takes a seat. Moments later, the train makes a move. The perspective shifts and he leaves the blonde for an instance. He can see the outside of the train, somewhere further down the platforms. He sees a figure sluggishly walk towards the edge. He can’t make out their features from the distance, but he does catch the pause. He imagines the silent reflection, the quiet deliberation.

Kuroo doesn’t see when the figure decides to step off the platform before he absorbs the violent crash. He can feel his own steady heart rate growing louder until he can practically hear each punctuated beat. The train comes to a stop and he’s back with the blonde. The few passengers begin to stand, but the blonde takes a few moments to follow.

He’s awake before they can find the body.

He sends the texts and spends a good minute looking back at them. There’s the inklings of doubt sewn into his conscience. _Was I acting too rash? Could this be some strange coincidence?_ His gut remains certain enough for him to put his phone away and get ready for class. 

* * *

The reply arrives at five in the afternoon.

* * *

Kuroo finds himself heading to the Tokyo Metropolitan Library. The same library the unnamed blonde had visited. For what it’s worth, he does have a book he intends on getting. Stepping into the library suddenly garnered a light weight in the depths of his chest. It’s like he’s passing through a cold spot where he imagines the blonde to have stood; like he’s standing in the intersection of where their presences lined up.

He shakes the sentiment off and strides in past the glass doors. 

There’s a bit more people on that Sunday afternoon. Most are students crowding around reference materials and typing up reports on the computers. The crowds are dispersed among the different sections and floors. Kuroo keeps to himself and heads for the section designated for Japanese Literature. He doesn’t have to walk far down the alphabet to find a row of books with _Dazai Osamu_ written on their spines.

He picks out a copy of _No Longer Human,_ turning it over to check for dent marks and scratches and puts it back when he deems it unsatisfactory. Upon further inspection, the next copy favours a little better.

He finds a note sitting between the cover and the title page. It’s about half the size of regular notebook paper. Kuroo takes the paper between his fingers, unfolding it to find a single phrase.

_I guess we both have no choice but to believe now._


	2. a strange thing to remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to Jell and Kou for beta reading 
> 
> I'll try to keep consistent weekly updates as much as possible so pardon me in advance if I end up a few days short.
> 
> Minor discussions about No Longer Human and Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki take place so there could be potential spoilers for those who would like to read these novels without prior knowledge
> 
> quotes are from Colourless.

_Before him lay a huge, dark abyss that ran straight through to the earth’s core. All he could see was a thick cloud of nothingness swirling around him; all he could hear was a profound silence squeezing his eardrums._

_(4.)_

* * *

The covers crumple when he sits up against the headboard. He doesn’t pull his glasses on when he reaches for the drawer, pulling it out in former familiarity. The action felt like a gear twisting into place, grinding past the specks of rust gathering on its surface.

He pulls the notebook onto his lap, fitting his thumb between the pages and flicking through the pages until he lands on the most recent one. Above the space where the tip of his pen lingers are the previous entries centring around the person he assumes to be on the other side of the phone. The face and name behind the unknown number. The person dreaming of him.

Tsukishima lists down what he sees. From the rooms he visits, the lectures he sits in, the people he laughs with and the noise he carries along with him. Something about him leaves fleeting nostalgia in his mind’s eye. It was as though somewhere in a distant reality, the two had crossed the sidewalk in opposite directions. Like their eyes had met briefly before they were swept along with the world.

It’s quite a stretch when he looks into the thought. Something tells him it must have just been from volleyball, it must have been someone on one of the teams they had gone against. If he were curious enough, he could go out and ask some of the upperclassmen about it. He thinks the chances of them recalling atrocious bed hair wouldn’t be too much of a leap.

The thoughts come to a halt and dissipate in the air, seeping through the minute gap in his window, leaving him entirely.

_Why should he care?_ He wonders to himself. His pen hovers over the last words he has written. _What was there to pursue?_ With the balance of probability, Tsukishima is almost certain this is the person on the other side of the screen, but why would that matter? So what if they somehow had dreams of one another— what then? What good would it do? If humans were created without the knowledge of what is to come next, then why should he pay heed to these series of phenomena? What use were they to one another?

Does he even need to know of his existence?

Does he even have room in the cramped vessel of his to accommodate another soul?

“Are you dreaming again?”

Tsukishima snaps his head upward at the sudden intrusion. Half of Akiteru’s body peeks through the semi-open door. He wants to reprimand him on knocking but isn’t entirely sure if he would have noticed it.

He clicks his pen, setting it aside with the notebook. “I could be studying.”

“You’ve still got some bed hair over there,” his brother points to the space above his head. Tsukishima makes no move to follow the accusation. “Who studies at nine on a Sunday?”

“Who bothers their siblings at nine on a Sunday?” 

“You’re being quite defensive to the older brother who’s _bothering_ you for breakfast.”

“There’s nothing defensive about stating possibilities.”

Akiteru steps into his room, leaving a gap between the door and the wall, “I wasn’t asking for the possibilities.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“Gosh, I might actually believe you do study at nine on a Sunday,” his brother puts a hand on his forehead and feigns a pained expression, “spare me the mental sparring for the morning, Kei. It’s too early for that.”

“It’s always too early for you, I suppose.”

He catches the desk chair cushion Akiteru aims at him. “It’s too early for _everyone_ , little brother.”

“Well good morning brother. You’ve brought me the news of breakfast. What else do you need from me?”

Akiteru falls onto the chair gracelessly. He spins it around a little to face Tsukishima better. “What’d you dream about?”

“The same thing,” he says evenly. Akiteru’s expression drops ever so slightly. He lets the silence pan out between them.

“Did you,” his brother clears his throat awkwardly, “did you see anything else?”

“No.”

By then, he knows better than to pry further.

Akiteru fidgets a little in the unsettling quiet, but Tsukishima remains unfazed, bored almost. He’s lived through enough of these to fill a lifetime.

“Well, uh, breakfast is ready. Mum will probably worry if you take too long.”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

Akiteru rests his hands on his knees before he stands, side stepping toward the door.

“Brother,” and he uses _oni-san_ , just as he always does. As childish as it sounds, the words prod at them in the atmosphere he sets.

“Hm?”

“Have you ever had dreams about another person?”

The gaze he meets is transparent. Akiteru is avidly trying to look past the glass in his eyes, trying to search for the semblance of an answer he wants to hear. But Tsukishima has the blinds drawn and the words remain unchanging. After pointless resistance, Akiteru lets go.

“No, I haven’t. But I don’t imagine it being impossible.”

“I see,” he says.

Akiteru walks out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

* * *

_Unceasing crowds of people arrived out of nowhere, automatically formed lines, boarded trains in order, and were carried off somewhere. Tsukuru was moved by how many people actually existed in the world. And he was likewise moved by the sheer number of green train cars. It was surely a miracle, he thought – how so many people, in so many railroad cars, are systematically transported, as if it were nothing. How all those people have places to go, places to return to._

(130.)

* * *

The text from the unknown number arrives just as he’s clearing the table from lunch.

* * *

_I got your note._

_When on Earth did you have the time to travel to Tokyo again?_

_I went yesterday._

_And since then, you managed to leave a note in this specific book undetected._

_Well, no one in their right mind would pick such an oddly old and specific book._

_I’ll have you know that this “oddly old and specific book” is one of our nation’s greatest classical novels._

_I guess this serves as dual confirmation for the most part._

_You got another book in my dream. I was contemplating on leaving two just in case but I couldn’t make out the other one._

_Kokoro._

_Soseki?_

_Maybe I will reconsider the notion of you being an old man._

_But that would be a notion built on false pretenses._

_You’ve seen how I’ve looked like now._

_Was I the dashing image you had conjured in your mind?_

_Do you normally dress like you’re attending a funeral?_

_A library is sort of like a graveyard if you think about it._

_Maybe ‘memorial’ would be a more fitting term._

_It houses the remnants of the souls of the past and immortalizes the writings they’ve left behind._

_If anything, I’m paying my respects._

_That’s one way to excuse yourself, I suppose._

_I speak nothing but the truth._

Tsukishima spends a few moments staring blankly at the screen, unsure of how to respond. He sets the phone aside when the screen goes black. No supplementary text follows, so he figures their strange conversation has come to a mutual close. 

Akiteru makes no move to question him further. He does attempt small talk with an awkward smile on his lips. Everything about his expression screams for the erasure of the early-morning conversation. Tsukishima remains unbothered, answering him promptly before heading back into his room to study.

Weekends are routinely dull when he thinks in regard to outward standards. After the first two meals of the day, he spends the rest of the day cooped up in his room, looking over notes and reading ahead in his textbooks. Once he deems everything accounted for, he opts for reading the novels on his desk before he’s called down for dinner. He’d head to bed early and await the sound of his alarm rousing him for another school day. It’s still about the same now, with the exception of the dreams that accompany him.

He continues on to the chapter ahead of where they are in his social studies class. His thoughts wander from the map of Europe spread across the page to the dreams he had written down in his notebook. Something in his mind actively begins to connect the dots, gathering the wood to spark the fire that would lead him back to the ever distant memory. The static in his mind is dialing back, like the blurry images on an old television slowly breaking into view. 

Tsukishima pulls the plug and the visions cut to black. He shakes the thoughts off and returns to the words splayed in front of him. He doesn’t have the liberty to be caught up in these thoughts.

He finishes the chapter and makes it a little over the next before his mother calls him from down stairs. 

“A couple of alumni and I are getting together for a friendly game,” Akiteru says as he hands Tsukishima the bowl. Tsukishima thanks him quietly. “Do you wanna come join us? We could use another middle blocker. I could pick you up after school tomorrow”

“That sounds like a good idea,” their mother chimes in, “you could use a break. You’ve been studying quite a lot.”

“I don’t mind,” he shrugs. He could use some time out of his head. He’s had quite an abundance of it lately.

They sort through the details over dinner. Tsukishima and Akiteru stand shoulder-to-shoulder by the sink, working in a system that came from years of repetition. His brother makes the not so subtle effort to hit him with the spray once they’re rinsing the plates, but he’s too busy trying to spit out the foam Tsukishima smeared over his mouth to gloat in childish snickering.

He checks his phone after he’s bid goodnight to his family. 

_Sorry, I had to head back to the campus._

_I was actually just about to ask you something._

_Perfect timing then._

_Fire away._

_Why are you talking to me?_

_I would have asked “why do you seem interested” but I wouldn’t want to presume._

_Don’t take this the wrong way, I’m just curious._

_No offence taken._

_What I mean to say is: why are you going out of your way to keep in contact with me?_

_Other than our shared foresight of the future?_

_That’s part of it._

_Well part of me wants to say that I’m intrigued, which I am. I want to figure out how this started, how it operates and what could happen._

_But another part of me also wants to help you out._

_I guess we could both help each other out in a more superficial sense._

_You seem quite certain with being able to manipulate the future._

_Why wouldn’t I be? It’s happened once._

_What’s to say it wouldn’t be able to happen again?_

_That’s a reasonable point I guess._

_“In a more superficial sense” is that not the main objective most people would have in this situation?_

_Humans are naturally inclined to invest in things for personal benefit._

_Consciously or not, it’s to be expected._

_So I wouldn’t want to come off as conceited by disputing the fact, but I’m going to be honest and say that you intrigue me and that’s partially why I want to help you out._

_How so?_

_I’m under the impression that we’ve met before._

_And it’s instinct for an upperclassman to look after their juniors, is it not?_

_You may be right, only obnoxious club upperclassmen would say something like that._

_And only stubborn juniors would deny their own flattery._

_Speaking of juniors, it’s bed time for you, young man._

_I should keep a track record of how much you incriminate yourself as a senior citizen._

_‘Ah yes, I’ll head to bed soon now, grandfather.’_

_I don’t like the image you’re insinuating._

_I’ll have you know, I still have a full head of healthy hair._

_More like an excess of it._

_Does it usually defy the laws of physics like that?_

_Or are you just trying to revive the ‘cool’ look that died half a decade ago._

_The corpse is buried six deep under. I'm afraid your efforts are going to waste._

_Ah, the toddler is having another bout of tantrums before bedtime._

_Shall I sing you a lullaby? Perhaps get you your formula (ha!)_

_Crankiness in children can best be cured by sleeping, so goodnight little one._

_Don’t forget your medicine before bed, dear senior!_

_You really like having the last laugh, don’t you?_

_Oh I see how it is._

_You may have won this battle, but the war is far from over._

_Mark my words!_

* * *

Tsukishima shakes his head. He exits his messages, setting his phone aside along with his glasses. He switches off the study light, pulls the covers over himself and stares out the corner of his window. He watches the curtains sway with the air conditioning and the few night birds fly off branches into the night. He tries to make out the blurry shapes of the stars to little avail. The attempt does weigh down on his eyelids and it isn’t long before he falls into the realms of sleep.

It isn’t long until he sees the face behind the unknown number in his dreams once more.

* * *

He’s blinking past the dream once his alarm rouses him. By then, he isn’t entirely sure what to make of it, especially when he’s too busy stumbling for his bearings in the semi-lit room. He steps to his door, twisting his door knob open, and giving a curt greeting to Akiteru before he makes his way to the bathroom.

“I think it’s a little too warm for a blazer now, Kei.”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.”

“Spring’s been over for quite a while now,” his mother says while he shrugs it off, leaving him in his white polo. He wants to ask how she knows. He wants to know _when_ spring truly ended but says nothing other than a quiet thanks and blessing when she hands him breakfast. Akiteru stifles a yawn by the stairs, loud enough to announce his entrance before taking the seat beside Tsukishima.

Despite the full table, the meal progresses in usual silence. The morning haze doesn’t part for him to sit with his thoughts. He heads back upstairs to brush his teeth and collect his bags before bidding his household farewell and taking to the road.

Yamaguchi waves at him from the short intersection, he nods in acknowledgement before they fall into step. He lets his friend carry the small talk while they walk up the sidewalk. They talk about homework and a few readings from class. Yamaguchi divulges into a story about the shenanigans he had to sit through with the freak duo, Tsukishima supplies minimal commentary between scoffs.

They’re putting away their outdoor shoes into their lockers when Yamaguchi speaks up again.

“You brought your sports bag.”

Tsukishima glances back at the duffel bag he shoulders. “I’m heading out with Akiteru later.”

“Oh.” Tsukishima tucks his shoes away and closes the door, avoiding the fully painted expression on Yamaguchi’s face. That’s how it usually is with him. He wears his feelings in his eyes for all the world to see without actually saying anything. There are times Tsukishima thinks Yamaguchi is fully aware of this and is just waiting for someone to mention something along the lines of the script Yamaguchi has in his eyes. Like he’s waiting for someone to say the words on his behalf to avoid the prospect of coming off as “too blunt.”

In times like these, Tsukishima remains indifferent. He steps past his friend with ease. They’ve known each other long enough for Tsukishima to interpret these telepathic messages without thinking twice, but he makes no move to respond to them. Part of it has to do with his inability to comply with someone else’s narrative, and the rest comes down to the almost instinctive rubber band-snap sensation underneath his skin. He doesn’t understand Yamaguchi in times like these.

“I just thought, you know—"

Tsukishima barely manages to prepare a templated answer when the bell rings and they’re scurrying into the classroom and into their seats. The conversation ends without another word. 

* * *

It’s about an hour and a half into the first subject when he takes out the notebook he had grabbed just before he left home. He faintly notes that this is the first time he’s ever brought the notebook outside of his room. Tsukishima doesn’t let it fall open on his desk, one hand remains holding the cover up while the other takes his pencil as he begins to delve into the images from the early morning.

The previous entries stare back at him at the page. They detail small daily happenstances, from Ao (the name he assigns the unknown number) going to the local mart for groceries to the music he blasts in the background while he’s studying. It’s always been insignificant details of Ao’s life, but strangely enough, these little things have proved to be quite telling.

He seems to be all over his campus. He’s always flitting between groups of people, telling jokes Tsukishima doesn’t remember but radiated an aura of contagious humour and joy even within the limitations of his dream. Ao is outgoing but also quick witted and diligent. He’s focused during lectures and doesn’t seem afraid to ask questions or challenge the views being presented. He takes a considerable amount of time browsing through shop items and tends to always have something playing in the background whenever he’s alone.

Tsukishima’s pencil writes alongside his thoughts.

Because that very statement was what made his dream strikingly odd.

_Ao. Sitting alone in his room. Reading : No Longer Human._

Tsukishima underlines the very last word he writes.

_Quiet._

The image is in his mind’s eye. Ao’s expression is unreadable, but Tsukishima can gauge the smallest hints of what he assumes to be discomfort. But there’s so much more within the layers of silence. There’s so much more than the way Ao stares at the words on the page, eyes moving unceasingly over each sentence.

There’s the pause. The book shuts and Ao’s gaze darts around the room before he forces his eyes shut. There are shards in the surrounding area— metaphysical shards cutting deep in the atmosphere. It was like standing out in the open where a grand monument used to be. It was like standing in a space that had once been occupied by something— by _someone._ It was unfilled, unsteady— it was _empty._

Tsukishima shuts the notebook and slips it back in his bag, exchanging it for a textbook. He takes a breath that hides under the noise of the bell, though it does nothing to dispel the nagging voice in the back of his mind. He segregates it when he makes space to focus on his lessons but the voice continues on persistently.

It thins throughout the day, reduced to faint thuds against a wall. He opts for reading the remainder of Colourless in between classes. He’s in no particular rush and it isn’t as though books like these are ones meant to be read in one sitting. He frequently finds himself setting it aside to breathe, to settle with his thoughts and ponder on nothing in particular. It’s the kind of book that instigates a sense of wistfulness, even without a subject to latch onto. The more he ponders on it, the more he realizes how real it all feels. How the little spaces act as time to prepare before life continues and an unsteady reality settles. It’s the breaks no one has the liberty of having in the real world.

He sets the book aside midway through Tsukuru’s conversation with Aka, the second of the two men. Tsukishima raises his head and stares at the book, taking a little longer to decipher the characters before the fog over his eyes fades.

He doesn’t pick up the book for the rest of the day.

* * *

_“Losing is not an option.”_

_An odd look passed over Ao’s face for a second and then he grinned broadly— “Ah— my rugby pep talk. You picked a strange thing to remember.”_

_(137.)_

* * *

“I didn’t expect you to get out this early,” Akiteru comments from the driver’s seat. Tsukishima ducks into his own, twisting to place his school bag in the backseat while keeping the duffel settled on his lap. His brother starts moving out of the driveway when his seatbelt comes together with an audible click.

“I didn’t have classroom duty today.”

“I guess I’m just getting used to you getting out earlier in general.” Tsukishima stares at the road ahead without a word. 

Akiteru keeps up the small talk for a short while but he isn’t really one for multitasking. They fuss over who gets control of the radio, though the fight is won by Tsukishima’s proposed compromise. Akiteru nods his head to the beat of a Queen ballad, he stifles a laugh when _We Will Rock You_ begins to play.

“You used to love this song as a kid,” he says over the music, “you were so tiny too. I remember having to help you get the clapping right. Ah, you’ve grown up so much now.”

“You’re beginning to sound like a doting mother.”

He doesn’t catch Akiteru’s response when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

“Who is it?”

“Yamaguchi,” he says automatically, wondering if the strokes that write out the character “blue” could somehow be rearranged to spell “cave entrance.”

There are a string of messages that he seemed to have missed while he was in class.

Tsukishima finishes reading them just as they reach the gym.

* * *

_You’re probably still in class but I thought I’d leave these messages for you._

_You’re having a game with your older brother, right? It looks like you’re playing with a bunch of alumni as well._

_They’re a bit rusty, but they’ve still got a lot more experience than you._

_I’m not doubting you, you did well in my dream and I’m sure you crows have been keeping an ace up your sleeve for the past year._

“Sorry Cover!”

The ball connects, but arcs a little further than anticipated.

“Left! Left!”

_But as your upperclassman, it is within my obligation to help you out._

_Particularly with this one spiker._

“Oi Tsukishima.” He and Akiteru turn at the name. Though it doesn’t really take two and two to figure out who exactly it was aimed for. “You said your little brother was a middle blocker, right? He may have the height, but his limbs might as well be sticks. You sure he's going to survive the game?"

_He’s a bit full of himself, but he’s got a nasty spike._

"Kei's been up against some powerhouse schools—"

"Let's have a good match," Tsukishima cuts in. Akiteru gives him a glance and whatever words he had remained unsaid.

_He reminds me a bit of a friend of mine. They both have strong spikes that seem to try to rip your fingers off._

"One touch!" He hears the ball connect to the libero by the time he lands back in the court. Tsukishima doesn't have time to tend to the sting on his palm when the ball soars back over the net.

"Kei, are you alright?"

Tsukishima flexes his fingers, curling them in and out of a fist, his eyes never leave the other side of the court. "I'm fine."

_But they both get really attached to one type of spike. They get attached once they get into a rhythm._

_I don't think I need to spell out what you need to do. I'm sure you've figured it out by now._

"Brother."

"Hm?"

"I need you to help me with something."

Akiteru nods without hesitation, gathering the rest of the team around during the time-out. The attention has him running methodical circles into his bruised palm, but it doesn't deter him from speaking.

The whistle blows and they're back in position. The other team's server lines up and aims a jumper floater at them. It's received and rallied tirelessly. Tsukishima doesn't move much, but his eyes remain fixed on the ball.

The spiker rises to the set. Tsukishima rushes in front of him.

And that's when he catches the slip up. The hesitation. The flicker of hopelessness.

_You and I are middle blockers, but I won’t be giving you blocking tips today._

_Because you aren’t aiming to nullify the attack with a block._

The spiker is forced to abandon the straight, the sudden change in direction decreases the initial amount of force, and it lands directly into the outside hitter’s platform. Just as Tsukishima had anticipated.

“Tsukishima!” the _kun_ at the end sparks him into action. Tsukishima runs beneath the ball, raising his arms, fingers poised and awaiting the touch.

_You’re gonna pave the way for your hitter._

“Akiteru!”

_By the way, have you ever tried the time lag attack?_

The middle blockers rise as Akiteru bends his knees. It’s too late once they realize the mid-second delay his brother leaves in between before he takes to the air, towering over the wall and meets Tsukishima’s set with a loud spike. The sound echoes in the stunned silence that follows.

Tsukishima’s gaze remains on his older brother who alternates between staring at his palm and the spot where the ball had made contact with the ground. His mouth is parted, like he’s trying to find the right words to say but comes up empty. His eyes are wide but his expression is gentle. It’s quiet disbelief before Akiteru’s eyes crinkle and his lips are tugged on the sides. His laugh is breathless at first, but it gains voice - it gains colour.

Akiteru turns to him with a thousand-watt smile. He’s being pulled in a hug and he can feel the ripples of laughter from Akiteru’s chest. 

“That was some set, Kei! I wonder how you never decided to sign up as a setter. You mapped out the entire rally before it even began!”

“You looked like quite the ace, Tsukishima.” One of the hitters says, patting his older brother on the back. Akiteru keeps an arm around his shoulder, he lets out another boyish laugh.

“Right?”

_“That makes you the ace, right?”_

_The ball rebounds off the board. Akiteru catches it in his hands without facing him. There’s a mid-second deliberation before he finally does._

_“Yeah! I guess it does.”_

The brighter the day is, the darker the shadows are. That’s how it goes, isn’t it? But no one seems to notice. Everyone is staring up at the sun and going blind, leaving Tsukishima alone in the penumbra. But he can’t bring himself to say a thing.

* * *

_“Words don’t come out when you’re hurt that deeply.”_

(140.)

* * *

_How was the game?_

_It went well._

_Thank you, by the way._

_Don’t mention it._

_It was fun wasn’t it?_

_I guess so._

_You don’t sound overly convinced._

_It’s just a game after all._

_That’s fair._

Tsukishima fidgets, he looks up at the evening sky in an attempt to garner a response. Akiteru is still nodding along to the songs on the radio. They haven’t said much to each other for the duration of the ride, probably due to the evident exhaustion weighing down on them. Had it been someone else behind the wheel, he’s almost positive Akiteru would have been fast asleep on his shoulder; Tsukishima would have followed suit shortly after. But they’re both keeping themselves awake and a smile remains painted on Akiteru’s lips. Tsukishima takes a breath, collecting his thoughts and tapping the screen just as it begins to fade.

_How are your books so far?_

_Oh?_

_Oh they’re pretty interesting._

_By ‘they’ I mean No Longer Human since I haven’t managed to start Kokoro yet._

_I haven’t had the chance to read any of them._

_Though I’ve heard there might be a chance I’ll need to read Kokoro for third year._

_That makes sense._

_I don’t really think No Longer Human is really fit to be part of school literature._

_It’s quite existential, isn’t it?_

_Most people would have gone with “dark” but I’m glad you didn’t._

_Yeah you’re right. It’s quite a turn when discussing the aspect of humanity._

_People typically take a very ideological standpoint on their cynicism, they equate humanity to a system they disagree with and propose one they believe in._

_While the main character in this novel just has an apparent disconnect with humanity in general._

_It’s full of paranoia and it’s hopeless almost._

_It’s like he’s going in and out of being human._

_Hence the title._

_Exactly._

_And it’s quite a daunting task to portray and it’s not as comprehensive as I had originally thought but I think that reveals the genuinity behind it._

_How so?_

_Because it highlights thoughts people typically wouldn’t have, thoughts that people might label as “outrageous.” And the few who do explore these thoughts don’t have the liberty of articulating them into words._

_And are you one of those people?_

_Haha no, no I don’t think so._

_But it doesn’t hurt to try and step into their places and figure out their thinking._

_The novel makes a lot of good points about morality and just engaging with people in general._

_That seems like quite a bit to unpack._

_It’s a pretty interesting read._

_How is yours so far?_

_It’s one by Murakami, right?_

_What’s it about?_

_Oh, yeah._

_It’s about a man who labels himself as “Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki”_

_Hence the title again._

_That’s right._

_He was in a friend group with four other people with him being the only one without a colour in his name._

_I guess it’s also somewhat existential. It’s a bit philosophical as well._

_It covers his journey to figure out the cause of his sudden banishment from the group of four._

_Sounds like quite the story._

Tsukishima keeps his phone in one hand as he dumps his clothes into the washer. He runs the towel over his hair as he’s climbing the stairs. He lets his legs give way once his bed is in proximity, flipping to lay on his back when he checks his messages again.

_It is._

_You tend to put it down a lot._

_I see it in my dreams sometimes._

_It’s the kind of book that requires you to do so._

_I see. I get that._

_Books that ponder quiet reflection are really something else._

_Is that how it is with No Longer Human?_

_Yeah._

_I just need to put it down to breathe sometimes._

_Though my curiosity does get the best of me so I’ll probably spend most of the night reading it._

_You shouldn’t do it tonight._

_You stayed up reading and missed a lecture._

_Ah, that’s a first._

_I’ll bear that in mind then. I should probably head to bed early while I still can._

_That’s true._

_Thanks for the heads up._

_Are you heading to bed now? You must be pretty beat._

_I’ll probably head off as well._

_It’s for the best._

_Goodnight._

_Goodnight to you too._

* * *

Tsukishima clicks the lamplight shut. He folds his glasses and his head finds the pillow. There are no stars in sight, but Tsukishima lets his gaze wander in the endless sky. He lets it draw further and further away.

* * *

It’s been a long time since he has set foot in this library.

He blows the thin layer of dust gathering on the shelves, his footsteps echo loudly against the floor as he walks down the aisles. His fingers trace over the spines of each of the covers. The titles are a mix of English and Japanese, all spread with disregard of the standardized system.

An invisible force draws him to another line of shelves that house books with numbers for titles, that house memories in place of pre-written narratives. In this room, the nagging voice at the back of his head compels him to search through the previous year.

_Where has he seen Ao before?_

There had to be a clue with his association. Some unconscious part of his brain managed to link Ao and the unknown number together. Tsukishima takes out a book and finds the list of teams Karasuno had played against in his first year, but the words are smudged, just as the specific details remained foggy in his mind.

“Losing is not an option,” he murmurs out loud. “Losing is not an option.”

A pep talk? A speech?

He flicks through the pages, eyes running over whatever intelligible words he can find. The phantoms of words fill the library. He hones in on the sounds of rubber on the court, indistinct murmuring among the teams present. Tsukishima looks up and navigates through the fog, narrowing it all down.

“Blood,” he repeats. “Blood. The brain.”

It was that team. The only team with a significant speech before the match. The team that had managed to combat the freak duo’s quick.

Ao’s profile sticks out from the team circle. Tsukishima almost wants to laugh.

Nothing about the team screams _blue._

“ _Nekoma.”_

Tsukishima turns to a voice that is certainly not his own— and that’s when he sees him.

Ao, the unknown number.

Ao from the red team.

Ao from Nekoma, standing just metres away from him.

He raises his head, his gaze draws beneath the ceiling. “What is this place?”

  
  



	3. their own unique colour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found that the cemetery is a great place to manifest krtsk. 
> 
> novel excerpts included:  
> Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage and No Longer Human

_“If nothing else, you need to remember that. You can’t erase history, or change it.”_

* * *

“This isn’t the future, is it?”

The book in his hands closes with a dulled _thud_ and he inserts it back into its place among the row. His eyes never leave Ao, however. “No, it isn’t.”

“So either I’m dreaming you up naturally or our consciousnesses have somehow managed to coincide into this—“ Ao spreads his arms and gestures wildly in the air, “this sort of dream scape zone? Place? Field?”

“Possibly so,” Tsukishima says, unsure of where he should be standing. “This is where I go when I don’t have those dreams.”

Ao’s gaze snaps toward him, he taps the bottom of his fist into his open palm, his whole expression screams “ _eureka!”_ and Tsukishima can almost imagine a lightbulb over his head. “This is just like _Sherlock Holmes_ isn’t it?”

He steps closer when Tsukishima finds himself unable to respond. “He has this thing doesn’t he? What was it called? A mind castle?”

“I guess it could be translated to ‘mind palace.’”

“So that’s it then. This is your mind library.”

“Mind library…?”

“Well a mind palace is a bit too much. Mind library suits you a lot better.”

“And you would know?”

“All it took was a look around the place,” Ao returns to gesturing to the shelves around them. “Plus, I haven’t met any other person who goes through the effort of going to another prefecture for a newly released book.”

Tsukishima shifts the weight in his footing slightly, “fanatics probably would.”

“Are you calling yourself one then?” 

He scoffs. “Fair point.”

“But look at the size of this place,” Ao moves away from him, pacing a short distance away, marvelling at the shelves. He supposes they’d be considered high to the general public, but they’re only about a head taller than he and Ao are. “It looks mostly filled. How have you managed to read these many books in what, sixteen? Seventeen years? Gosh, those numbers feel smaller and smaller each time.”

“Sixteen,” Tsukishima corrects him. “And they aren’t all literary books.”

Ao snaps his fingers. “Right. It’s a mind library after all.”

“You’re very adamant in putting it that way.”

“Analogies simplify things, particularly mind-bending phenomena just like this.” 

“And you’ve seemed to grasp the concept rather quickly.”

“Maybe it’s the privilege readers have,” his companion moves towards the central table, grabbing one of the seats and plopping himself down onto it. “We get to imagine all these out-of-this-world visions, we get to live and see lives other than our own. We get a taste of the unreal so these outlandish circumstances shouldn’t be too much of a stretch. If anything, we should be the most prepared, don’t you think?”

The picture in front of him is full of ironies, he thinks. Ao, the unknown number and acquaintance from what seems to be a lifetime ago is sitting crossed legged in front of him. Ao, from the red team, who sits fully clothed in black. Ao, he finds, who has a gaze he finds to be unmistakably yellow. 

Tsukishima carefully reaches for another chair, turning it and sitting directly across Ao, a calculated distance remaining between them. “It’s reasonable.”

“You have to admit, it’s almost something out of a fantasy novel.” Ao comments off-handedly before his eyes roam around the space around them once more. “So these shelves are just your memories then?”

A shrug, “perhaps.” He doesn’t understand why he’s tempted into transparency. Ao seems to pick up on this and doesn’t make any move to pry. He continues under the impression that assumption is proven, however.

“It must have taken quite a while to get everything sorted.”

“A few years give or take,” Tsukishima replies, painfully aware of the patches of discomfort spreading on his skin. He’s never been one for small talk and the prospect of them sitting through who knows how long of awkward back and forths has his flight reflex humming in the pit of his stomach. It’s not like Tsukishima can just ignore him, especially in a place like this. He’s about to wrack his mind for some way to wake himself up faster when it occurs to him.

“You’re going to be late for your lecture.”

“Because I’m going to oversleep?”

“Yes. And this dream is only going to add on to it.”

“That won’t happen,” there’s a smile on Ao’s lips, just as he’s seen a couple times in his dreams.

Tsukishima feels his own eyes narrow, “how would you know that?”

“Dreams only last about twenty minutes,” Ao says easily. “You could argue that we both have no idea what time it is exactly, but if you think about it, it’s almost impossible for me to sleep in. If we did go with the assumption that it’s dangerously close to when my alarm is set for - which also considers the fact that I’m somehow able to sleep through it— then we would know, wouldn’t we?”

“Because by then, my own alarm would go off, hence the end of the dream.”

“Right on, Kafka. But you don’t look very convinced.”

Tsukishima crosses his arms and leans closer against the back of his chair, “the future doesn’t change that easily.”

“That’s true, but this isn’t some sort of plan to stop the end of the world. I slept in because I stayed up reading, so now I went to bed early and have been put in an instance that makes it almost impossible for me to miss the alarm. Assuming this is a double-ended dream.”

“Assuming so,” Tsukishima repeats.

“I’ve already managed to shift the future before, haven’t I? If managing to talk you out from taking a train is possible then I’m sure this is no different.” Ao continues, “and yet, you still look quite displeased with that observation.”

“What did you see in your dreams exactly?”

“In the first dream, I saw you getting on the train with almost all of the specifications that came along with it. You boarded the train that had hit the person. I’ve already relayed what I saw in the second one.”

“And you told me about them because one, you didn’t want me to see the body and two, you didn’t want me to fail the exam, am I right?”

He nods. “That’s the gist of it.”

“But did I do any of those things?” Tsukishima says evenly, “did I see the body? Did I actually fail the test in your dream?”

Ao’s eyes widen ever so slightly, and it’s all he needs to confirm it.

“You may have changed certain parts, but the ending never changed. Someone still jumped in front of a train and we still had a surprise quiz.”

Across him, Ao’s lips draw into a fine line. He’s leaning his weight onto his elbows, using his thighs to table them. His gaze remains on the floor for a few moments, his bangs fall over his eyes and hide his face a little. Tsukishima can almost sense the quiet buzz of thoughts streaming from underneath Ao’s mess of hair. “So you’ve never changed the future before?”

“It’s impossible to do so.”

“It isn’t impossible until it’s proven.” There’s a twinkle sparkling in his eyes. “This is the chance to put it to the test.”

“And if I’m right?”

Ao shrugs, “then you get bragging rights.”

“If I’m right then there wouldn’t be any point in us communicating.” Tsukishima doesn’t wince at the bareness of his words. He’s never been the type to beat around the bush. He is positively certain that his statement would hold true, and by then he wants to put all this behind him. They had nothing to offer to one another other than insights into events they couldn’t change. It would all be pointless in the end, just as these dreams always have been.

Ao sighs out loud, breaking him from his thoughts. “You take everything way too seriously, y’know?” He runs a hand through his hair and exhales again. “Well, I don’t mind if you wouldn’t want to talk to me anymore, that’s all up to you. But I’m not just talking to you because of the faint chance of possibly changing the future. Sure, this whole thing is strange, but as I’ve told you before, I also think you’re interesting and you’re actually quite fun to talk to.”

He finds himself struggling to form a response. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” Ao continues, “whatever happens, I’ll let you know and I’ll leave it to you to decide what to do next.”

Tsukishima takes a breath. “Okay.”

“You know, I always wondered how you were so certain. Evidence aside, you took it without asking questions, without a trace of skepticism. But it makes a lot of sense of now.”

He can’t find the words to respond when Ao looks him dead in the eye. It’s like they were in a silent game of chess, like they had moved pieces in between their exchanges without much heed - it’s only now that Tsukishima finds himself looking at the metaphorical board. His defences were chipped away, his king cornered. But Ao doesn’t finish what he starts. He takes his own king and lays it down on the board.

There’s a dulled siren in the back of his mind, the echoes grow clearer as it approaches.

“Because you’ve had these dreams before, haven’t you?”

The pieces fall off the board when the world fades away.

* * *

“ _It would be like destroying yourself.”_

(36.)

* * *

Kuroo finds himself dashing up the slightly sloped region of his campus at eight in the morning. Other door residents are close behind him, though his years in the volleyball club keep him a considerable distance ahead. He was never the best runner with his poor stamina but the fact doesn’t stop him from laughing as they charge towards the doors. A few others who had gotten a headstart pull the doors open for them, Kuroo shoots them a thank you before rushing down the hall.

He had woken up a considerable amount of time before his own alarm. He had just (fortunately) gotten into his clothes when the person from the room across came knocking at his door, hurriedly explaining that their morning class had suddenly moved to an earlier time slot. 

Kuroo’s trainers skid against the floor when he comes to a stop in front of the lecture hall. His classmate is the one to drag the door open before they enter, barely collecting their breaths when they bow to the professor.

“I apologize for the short notice, I was sure I had informed a handful of students ahead of time.”

He prides himself for keeping himself upright while the rest of the group are in various states of exhaustion behind him. Kuroo can’t keep himself from laughing again when he responds on their behalf.

A wave of students file in shortly after. All in various tones of grumbling. Kuroo takes his seat in one of the middle rows, making an audit of what he had managed to grab in the spur of the moment. He lets out a breath when he finds a notebook and pen. 

He flips it open just as the professor pulls up the powerpoint. It’s not the notebook for the particular subject, but it doesn’t bother him much. He’s always considered compiling everything into one out of practicality anyway.

His eyes wander to the crudely scribbled words at the very top of the page he lands on. Kuroo tilts over to make out the message. It prompts him to reach into his pocket for his phone, concealing it in the space beneath the desk.

_I didn’t sleep in._

That’s all he had managed to send before the sudden intrusion. He hadn’t even had enough time to marvel in celebration.

The residue of adrenaline seeps beneath his skin, leaving him in a state similar to that of a slightly compressed spring. His body feels light but the instinct to react with topmost performance remains to be triggered at the slightest chance. It’s the ideal state to be in in the middle of the game and an absolute waste in the middle of a lecture. Despite it, Kuroo opts for twirling his pen between his fingers, zoning in and out of lesson before ultimately deciding to ponder on his own thoughts to direct the momentarily granted clarity.

The future had changed. The boy from the prefecture four hours away was wrong.

He rests his chin onto his palm, tapping his pen against the page. He could sense the stream of possibilities crossing his mind, the building blocks of thoughts flipping over and stacking up like a game of Tetris. Questions began to formulate in the gears turning in the back of his mind. It’s a flurry of discovery.

_The future can change,_ Kuroo repeats and the falling pieces pause in midair. It hadn’t been defied until the very moment their consciousness had aligned. Though it’s too early to be coming to any concrete conclusions, Kuroo starts piecing clearer fragments together like one would with a puzzle. But Kuroo doesn’t begin with the corners. It hadn’t even occurred to him that it was a plausible method. He fixates himself on the image and pieces together the most significant pieces, working until only the smallest details are left. 

He inhales, takes a firmer grip on his pen, and stares ahead at the board. Kuroo steps back at the partial image he’s created in his mind.

He had briefly entertained the possibility that an individual could make these changes alone, and that could still hold true in regard to more personal related events— but the common denominator rules itself out. Kafka admitted to have never been able to change the future and Kuroo believes he understands why.

The hypothesis remains written at the corner of his page, he sends what could turn out to be his last text to the number before he sets his phone down and tunes back to the lecture.

_I made it to class on time._

* * *

No reply comes throughout the course of the day, but Kuroo doesn’t mind. It’s a handful to consider, let alone internalize, especially since he assumes he’s had these dreams before.

That opens up more of his own questions, ones he knows he’ll probably never get to ask but can’t keep himself from wondering about. He can’t help but think about the boy in the prefecture four hours away.

He moves his worksheets aside, shuts his textbooks and piles them back on the side of the desk. He turns to squint at his alarm clock, deciphering the numbers to confirm that it’s a little deeper into the evening. Kuroo links his hands over his head, popping his back a little before he makes a grab for his keys and wallet.

A couple of people greet him down the hall. Most walking back from study sessions in the library and a few coming back from trips to nearby stores. Kuroo stops for idle chatter here and there before continuing his journey to a nearby mart to scavenge for dinner.

He makes a beeline for the instant ramen aisle, grabbing a couple in routine like fashion as well as a few side ingredients. He restocks a few drink bottles and pays up at the counter, leaving into the cooler night with two bags balanced in one hand.

His shoes come off and he pads his way into his room, dropping the purchases on the counter, leaving some water to boil in the thermos. He leaves some new pop album release on his phone while he sorts out his meal.

Kuroo lifts the tub onto his desk while he keeps his chopsticks in his mouth. He sets it down on a paper towel with a silent blessing before he digs in. He reaches over for the novel closest to him, fitting his finger into the marker and flicking the pages open.

Despite its medium length, Kuroo finds himself navigating the story at a slower pace. He finds himself going back on the words and pausing in between. It’s like a conversation almost. Like Yozo is detailing the events of his life and his philosophy of distaste and fear towards the human race. Kuroo finds himself sitting in his place, listening and internalizing his thoughts. The overarching tones of anxiety and dread wash over him like floodwater— the response doesn’t shake him, but it keeps him going onward until the waters settle.

He takes a break once he’s finished his meal. He segregates accordingly and rinses his utensils, tucking them away in the cupboards. It’s a little late in the night by then, still too early in college standards but without anything to do, he supposes he could read a little more before heading to bed.

* * *

_Is it not true that no two human beings understand anything whatsoever about each other, that those who consider themselves bosom friends may be utterly mistaken about their fellow and, failing to realize this sad truth throughout a lifetime, weep when they read in the newspapers about his death._

* * *

Kuroo shuts the book once his phone’s fallen silent without any more music to play. That’s when he realizes he’s managed to miss a message.

_I guess you were right._

He can’t help but laugh at the thought. The image of his mind is an almost scornful look, the pain of having to admit defeat. But he could just be taking the piss out of it.

_Don’t worry, I can look the other way and give your bragging rights._

_Shove off._

_I’m going to bed._

_Did you need me to wish you goodnight?_

_Are you taking up my offer for a bedtime story?_

_It’s going to be a bit depressing though._

_I don’t need to hear stories about your time in the war, ancient one._

_You’re passing up the opportunity to hear history first hand._

_I thought you were a history nerd._

_It would end up being entirely subjective._

_But that’s how it usually is, isn’t it?_

_You can get the facts, but it’s a pretty boring picture._

_That isn’t to say unidimensional accounts favourable, it’s good to see the picture from both sides, don’t you think?_

_Human experience is quite subjective after all._

_Don’t intellectualize the situation._

_You’re probably going to tell me a detailed account about digging into a trench._

_On the contrary, I would’ve told you about my exchanges with the other party and the secret codes I had gathered from them._

_Ah, so you were a con artist._

_It’s not very surprising._

_I could give you the secrets of the universe from something as simple as “digging in a trench.”_

_And yet, you have failed to keep me interested in your stories._

_You seem very well engaged in this conversation, however._

_I guess that’s a point to me._

_Goodnight._

_Sweet dreams, young one!_

_May you see a vision of the future—_

_That was supposed to be one of those inspiring “change the world” sort of talks but I guess it’s a bit too literal now._

_An attempt was made._

_That’s what counts at the end of the day._

_Let’s hope we meet again in our dreams, dear Kafka._

_Let’s not._

* * *

_ “Each individual has their own unique colour, which shines faintly around the contours of their body. Like a halo. Or a backlight. I’m able to see those colours clearly.” _

(77.)

* * *

Kuroo sits himself down in the chair he had occupied the night before and heaves a loud sigh. “When I sent the text, I was joking, just to be clear.”

“Are you sure you aren’t considering checking in to an elderly home? You’re starting to give life lessons and prophetic statements.” A blank stare meets him evenly.

He grins widely at his companion sitting across him. “Are you neglecting your duty to your elders?”

“You’re quite the liability.”

He puts a hand over his heart and swoons. “Oh how you wound me, dear youngling. Do you not remember how I raised you to become a fine young man? When did you turn from your ways?”

“Is it an error in my judgement or are you in denial of your severe lack of guidance?”

“At the end of the day, dear Kafka, it’s on you for not learning.”

The blonde sits back in his chair, adjusting his glasses with his finger. “You did it again.”

“Did what?”

“You called me Kafka.”

Kuroo feels himself blink. He can’t help the laugh that escapes him almost breathlessly. “I guess you’re right.” He laughs a little more. “Sorry I guess it just slipped out.”

He looks up into amber eyes. He’s never had the chance to notice until now. “It’s the name I saved on my phone.”

“How come?” Kafka has his head cocked sideways, though Kuroo imagines it’s an unconscious motion on his part.

“He’s the main character of the book you keep on your bedside, isn’t it? _Kafka on the Shore_ if I’m not mistaken.”

To his surprise, Kafka chokes a laugh. It’s not the punctuated one he’s seen in glimpses. It’s not the sinister chuckle he lets out in blatant sarcasm. It’s boyish, unfiltered. A laugh he can’t help.

“Ao.” Kafka says once he regains himself. “Oumi Yoshio. He’s a character from Colourless _.”_

“ _Ao_ and _Kafka.”_ Kuroo repeats fondly. “Quite the combination.”

“You’re laughing an awful lot.”

“Sorry it’s just— _blue,”_ he puts a hand over his face, running it through his bangs before letting out a breath. “It’s a little ironic, really.”

He can see a thought run through Kafka’s eyes, but he says nothing.

“My best friend calls me _Kuro,_ though my name isn’t spelt as the colour. It’s _Kuroo,_ ” he extends a hand over the space between them. “Neither of us really got each other’s names, after all.”

Kafka stares at his hand for a moment. There’s a quiet deliberation in his gaze when he lifts his hand almost hesitantly. There’s a slight graze against his palm, Kuroo waits before adjusting his grip when their hands meet and shake gently.

“Tsukishima,” he says quietly.

Kafka and the blue sea.

The shore and the moon.

Blue and black.

Tsukishima and Kuroo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ao's name in the novel is Oumi Yoshio. His last name translates to "blue sea" hence why he was given the nickname.


	4. no place he needed to go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays everyone !
> 
> I guess this could act as a strange present to all of you. Thank you for your support so far and I hope this finds you all well.
> 
> Excerpts from:  
> Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage (minor content spoilers); and  
> Kafka on the Shore  
> both novels are by Haruki Murakami

“ _Why are we talking about this?” Tsukuru said, half to himself, trying to sound upbeat. “I’ve never talked to anybody about this before, and never planned to.”_

_Sara smiled faintly, “Maybe you needed to talk to somebody. More than you ever imagined.”_

_(36.)_

* * *

“You seem thoroughly amused.”

Kuroo’s eyes run over the titles on the shelves, he side-steps down the aisle while Tsukishima remains standing on one end. “It’s quite an elaborate nickname.”

“A colour is more elaborate than _Kafka?”_

He turns back to him as he reaches for a novel. “Kafka isn’t exactly close to _Tsukishima_ now, is it?”

“Colours is an almost elementary association. Your name just happened to sound like one.”

“Tell me more about Ao,” Kuroo squats onto the floor, placing the book onto his lap, unread. Tsukishima sighs when he takes a few steps closer and does the same. “What do he and I have in common?”

“You both have a pep talk.”

“Is it as cool as mine?”

“ _Losing is not an option.”_

“Oo, short but straight to the point.”

Tsukishima scoffs, “you could take a page out of his book. You sound like a politician giving a speech.”

“I like to think of it as comprehensive motivation.” He resists the urge to roll his eyes at the comment. “But going off on that, I take that he’s an athlete?”

“Rugby team captain.”

Kuroo points a finger gun at him. “Another spot on association.”

“He’s a car salesman for Lexus now.”

“That’s interesting,” Kuroo taps the book cover in thought. “Though that’s probably where the associations end, I’m afraid.”

“Aren’t you taking a business course?”

“Technically. But I’m not aiming to be a car salesman. I’m applying for the JVA.”

Tsukishima’s features crease slightly, “it’s remarkably difficult to get into.”

“Worth a shot. The challenge makes it interesting.” Kuroo looks down at the grey cover, thumbing the first few pages before he lands on the first chapter. “Do you have photographic memory, by any chance?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no.”

Kuroo shuffles closer to him, parting the pages a little when he motions it to Tsukishima. “I could be wrong, but isn’t this the actual novel? Take a look at the words.”

“It is,” Tsukishima confirms in mild disbelief, he manages to dispel it from his voice after some thought. “But this place isn’t entirely based on my memory. And given everything that’s happened -”

“Then it’s not much of a stretch for you to have full novels in this mind library of yours.”

He nods. “Just as long as I’ve read it, I believe.”

“Tell me about Colourless,” Kuroo says without looking up from the lines of text. He scans over them as he waits for Tsukishima to formulate his response. He reads the first sentence out loud, “ _From July of his sophomore year in college until the following January, all Tsukuru Tazaki could think about was dying.”_

He presses the book closed between both of his hands. “Quite an introduction.”

“You say that as you’re in the middle of No Longer Human,” Tsukishima comments before returning to the original request. He sets both arms behind him, planting his hands on the floor and shifting his weight backward. “It’s about a guy who, one day, mysteriously gets cut off from his circle of four. The story begins in the height of the damage, hence the straight-to-the-point introduction.”

“Does Ao happen to be one of those in the circle of four?”

“Yes. Each of the four have a specific colour assigned to them that’s drawn from their surnames. _Aka_ , _Ao_ , _Shiro_ and coincidentally, _Kuro_.”

“And only Tsukuru Tazaki remains colourless.”

“Precisely,” Tsukishima replies. “Tsukuru undergoes a series of surrealistic events, which is expected in Murakami works. He meets a guy named _Haida_ who recounts a story of his father’s strange encounter with a man who could see every person’s colour. He then goes on a journey to find each of his four friends again after a conversation with his girlfriend. There’s a lot more going on, it’s difficult to summarize it briefly.”

“I understand,” Kuroo says. “So is that where you’ve left off?”

“He’s just met the last of the four.”

“What do you think is going to happen next?”

Tsukishima looks up. The ceiling is bare and is made of what he assumes to be a dark wood. It suddenly occurs to him that there might be no ceiling after all, that he might just be staring into a dark void. “Murakami books tend to follow a very authentically human experience. You don’t sense a trace of a storyline being followed. It’s like you are standing in place of someone else, watching them live their lives and the circumstances that come up along the way so to predict a clear resolution would be pointless.” He exhales quietly. “But whatever happens, I think Tsukuru will find peace in one way or another.”

“Do you think he’ll manage to make amends with what he’s going through in the first few pages of the book?”

Tsukishima glances over to his side. There is a minute space left between them, any closer and their shoulders would brush. He doesn’t make any move to adjust this arrangement, however, and neither does Kuroo. _“From my own experience, when someone is trying very hard to get something, they don't. And when they're running away from something as hard as they can, it usually catches up with them._ ”

“A quote?”

Tsukishima nods, “from Kafka on the Shore.”

Kuroo watches him with his yellow eyes. From this close, Tsukishima can almost trace the hints of amber and brown in them. It’s an unrivaled sight. “Is that what is it then? Is Tsukuru running from something?”

“No, not necessarily. But I think he’s just standing still, caught in the middle of wanting something and not knowing what it is while everything from the past catches up to him. Like a rock in the middle of a rushing current.” Tsukishima draws his knees closer, tending to the idea closely in his mind. “So no, I wouldn’t say he’s running from something.”

“You seem a lot more certain about it now.”

“I just thought about it a little more.”

His companion acknowledges the answer. Kuroo stands first, returning the book to its place before offering a hand to him. He doesn’t need it, but he takes it anyway.

There isn’t much space between the shelves so they’re left standing a little too close for comfort. Tsukishima is the first to take a side step. 

“I didn’t expect to still be as tall as you,” Kuroo blurts out. Tsukishima automatically raises his head and stands his full height.

“You aren’t.”

“Oh no I definitely am.” Tsukishima’s jaw tightens and Kuroo smirks defiantly across him. “Guess we’re going to have to put it to the test. Say, does this mind library of yours have a ruler?”

* * *

_Our lives are like a complex musical score, Tsukuru thought. Filled with all sorts of cryptic writing, sixteenth and thirty-second notes and other strange signs. It’s next to impossible to correctly interpret these, and even if you could, and then could transpose them into the correct sounds, there’s no guarantee that people would correctly understand, or appreciate, the meaning therein. No guarantee it would make people happy. Why must the workings of people’s lives be so convoluted?_

(290.)

* * *

Tsukishima finishes Colourless shortly after the encounter. He lies in bed, the novel stacked on his side table. It’s too early in his standards, but he doesn’t plan on calling it a night just yet, especially not with his glasses on. 

He lets the waves wash over him. He lets the words sink and keep him grounded. He lets himself process everything that has happened.

His mind wanders to the dream. To his falter. When he had been so certain and yet could not find the words to showcase the foundation.

He has them now, he leaves them unsaid. He lets them filter through the cracks into his ceiling and into the breeze.

* * *

_Tsukuru Tazaki had no place he needed to go._

_(300.)_

* * *

Summer arrives alongside June.

School resumes at a pace he’s grown accustomed to. It’s back to lessons and tests, back to more serious late night studying. He admits, however, that it isn’t as monotonous as it once was. 

He and Kuroo meet in the library in strange intervals over the course of the month. The recurrence is infrequent, thus leading them to assume there was no way to systematically track it. He has smaller dreams about Kuroo who makes a point to remind him of his short sighted statement.

They talk about the books they’ve finished, ones they’ve read and are planning to get. Kuroo takes to the metaphysical copies in his mind, saying something along the lines of cost effectiveness and how he could make it through a significant portion of them in the times he finds himself alone in the library.

“Kokoro has around a hundred and ten chapters,” Kuroo complains to him one night. “It’ll probably take me a couple months to finish it. I could probably get through Colourless in a quarter of that time.”

“If you say so.”

“I was actually contemplating on reading _Norwegian Wood,_ it’s one of his most famous novels, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” He adds, “I didn’t really enjoy it much.”

Kuroo motions for him to make his point. He sighs. “I read it when I was fourteen and took a long break from it. I originally thought it was just a matter of my maturity so I went back to read it again but it didn’t seem to be the case. I guess I couldn’t really find myself connecting to the story.”

“It’s a love story, is it not?”

“It is. That could be part of the reason. The story in it of itself is good, I did enjoy some of the thoughts it presented, but it all comes down to being compelled to know what comes next.”

“You aren’t driven by the main character’s motives then?”

Tsukishima crosses his arms, “not particularly. A portion of it is spent on his college life, something you might be able to relate to, but it all comes down to him reflecting on his best friend’s death and his affections to said friend’s girlfriend.”

Kuroo laughs in the chair beside him, the weight balanced on its back legs makes it dangerously close to tipping over, but Kuroo lands the first two on the ground as he continues in his mirth. He turns to him, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I can definitely guess what kind of scenes are in here. Your face says it all! You look like you’ve just swallowed something bitter.”

“And you’re planning to read it after all that? How lewd.”

“I’m of age!” he returns to a laughing fit. “Poor fourteen-year-old you must have been tainted!”

“I skipped over the scenes,” Tsukishima points out defensively. “We’re all taught about it by the time we’re in middle school anyway. It’s something that’s bound to happen in books like these, I just choose to overlook them.”

“I’m just kidding you,” Kuroo pats him on the shoulder, “I get it. I don’t find those scenes very appealing either. I guess it’s just something used to mark certain relationships in stories, or it could just be the author’s outlet, who knows? The most important thing is the plot. There’s a lot more to it than _that.”_

“Besides, you’re pretty mature as is. Don’t take it too seriously.”

Tsukishima asks if Kuroo plans on continuing his interest in Norwegian Wood and is thoroughly surprised when Kuroo decides to take on both books at once.

“If I don’t like it, then I won’t have any problem shifting my focus onto Colourless.” They were fairly shorter in length, Kuroo continues. Tsukishima doesn’t have anything to rebuttal the notion.

With exams slowly approaching, Tsukishima finds his resolve to focus on his studies. There aren’t any new books he’s seeking out so it alleviates a minor distraction. Kuroo tends to offer pointers to him as well. He’s slowly learnt to take them. He’s also come to learn that Kuroo is not that bad of a teacher.

He finds himself grasping concepts a lot quicker, particularly in the sciences. Kuroo seems to have a penchant for listening too intently to the lectures he sees in his dreams, but he can’t bring himself to admonish him too harshly. He’s a great help in presentations, given that he’s a lot more sociable than could ever be.

_“The information you’ve gathered is really comprehensive. I think a good way to present it would be to…”_

Tsukishima slowly gets used to hearing Kuroo’s voice over the phone. It’s a subtle reminder of the world they live in outside of their fantasy-like experiences. He happily entertains Tsukishima’s questions and answers them in length. He walks him through the steps of each formula, breaking them down into smaller chunks and forming them in ways that hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“Aren’t you busy?” Tsukishima asks. He tries to imagine Kuroo on the other end of the phone, sitting by his desk with a leg crossed over the other while he’s slouching against the backrest. 

“I study as much as I can in class and during breaks. If I feel like I’m confused about something then I’d probably go back over it until I figure it out. But for the moment, no, I’m not particularly busy,” the voice on his phone replies. “You understand the concepts pretty quickly as well, so it isn’t very time consuming.”

By then, Kuroo would divulge into his tirade of feigned nostalgia and Tsukishima is ready with his threats to hang up. To which Kuroo fires back with—

“You called me first.”

Tsukishima hangs up in the middle of Kuroo’s boisterous laughter.

* * *

“Who was that on the phone with you last night?”

Tsukishima glances up at his brother from his spoonful of cereal.

“Someone from Tokyo,” he responds somewhat honestly. Though it’s quite early and he isn’t exactly thinking coherently.

“A friend of yours?” He nods.

“A senior. Met him at a practice match. Helps me study.”

“That’s nice of him,” their mother chimes from the kitchen. Tsukishima goes back to his bowl. He catches Akiteru giving him a particular look. Like he has something to say but isn’t entirely sure if it’s appropriate. Tsukishima is very familiar with said look, his brother used to wear it often back in the day. He wonders if it’s for the same reason now. Nevertheless, he resigns to ignorance and says nothing. Akiteru follows suit.

Yamaguchi greets him at the same intersection of the road with an apologetic expression. Tsukishima sighs out loud and tells him to get to the point.

“Oh no it’s not really my place to say,” Yamaguchi the breath he seemed to have been holding. “You’ll just have to see.”

He’s only managed to set his stuff down by his desk when _Tweedledee_ and _Tweedledum_ show up at the classroom door. Tsukishima forces his face straight when they trudge over to him. It seems another year of repetition never fails to make it less difficult— or any less amusing, in Tsukishima’s case.

“No,” he says spitefully.

“We didn’t even say anything—“

“Please help us study, Tsukishima.” He suppresses his laughter when the king bows in front of him. He tilts his head and leans down to make out the absolutely seething expression on his face.

“You both barely passed regardless, you should go ask Yachi for help.” He looks over to see Yamaguchi rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. He barely stops himself from sighing out loud this time. “Don’t you blockheads pay attention to anything other than volleyball?”

“Come on, Tsukishima! We have a training camp coming up and I promised Kenma—“ He holds a hand up to cut him off. Something clicks in his mind at the name.

“Tokyo,” he isn’t aware he’s uttered it until Hinata points it out.

“Yeah! Tokyo, with Nekoma and I promised that we would get to nationals and face off against them so we really need to go to this camp,” Hinata somehow takes it as a cue to push further, shoving Kageyama out of the way. “So you’ll help us, right?”

He pinpoints his annoyance, the pleading look on Yamaguchi’s face and the prospect of further pestering from the freak duo. Tsukishima tells himself that these factors are enough of a reason, but part of him knows it isn’t entirely true. It’s the same part that advocates for the soft voice in the back of his head - the voice in his dreams.

“Lunch,” Tsukishima says, “you have the entire lunch period and not a minute longer.”

“Can’t you help us after practice ends—“

“I’m not waiting that long.”

“Lunch it is,” Kageyama interjects. “We can eat in the break before that.”

The bell rings and they both scramble out of the room. Yamaguchi offers him a sympathetic smile before heading to his own seat. Tsukishima exhales through his nose and stares out the window, mentally preparing himself for the excruciating mental exertion it takes to teach the freak duo. He forces himself to listen to each word their teacher says in an effort to overlook his boiling frustration.

It subsides between discussions. He focuses on taking notes and flipping through his textbooks. Studying, or at least, learning something is somewhat therapeutic. It gives his mind something else to think about other than the inevitable migraine he’s going to nurse on for the last half of the day.

He’s midway through a sandwich when his phone vibrates in the hollowed out area in his desk.

_You look like someone just folded a page in one of your books._

_That’s one way to put it._

_But you’re a bit too late._

_I’ll overlook the insinuation in favour of asking for your troubles._

_The freak twins need extra tutoring for exams._

_And you, being the model student, extended the offer to help._

_Please end my suffering._

_It shouldn’t be too hard._

_I wish you luck, dear underclassman._

_I just came in to check up on you._

_You looked nothing short of murderous in my dream._

_But I have nothing to worry about now, if anything, I’m quite amused._

_Glad to know I’m a source of entertainment._

_You’re still a highschooler with menial high school troubles, it’ll be something to look back on and laugh about._

_I’m ending the conversation before you get nostalgic._

_It’s too late for that._

_Now I’m going to have to sit through reminiscent times during my lecture._

_You brought this upon yourself._

_Don’t come crying to me when you fail._

_Have a little more faith in your upperclassman, Tsukishima!_

_Well, I’m heading off. Good luck with the freak twins._

_I’ll need it._

* * *

“Are you both done?” Tsukishima flips his phone over and checks the time. It’s half past six in the evening. “It can’t be _that_ difficult. All you need to do is substitute everything into the formula—“

“But there’s no way someone can stay in the air and come back down at the same time as a ball!”

“Idiot, I was supposed to say the same thing!”

Tsukishima feels his own eyes go blank. Hinata and Kageyama shove their worksheets at him, he looks past the atrocious scribbling in an attempt to decipher some form of coherency.

“You both actually solved it correctly.”

“Yeah! But I’m telling you, something isn’t right!”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling and exhaling deeply. “If I dropped a bowling ball and a feather at the same time and from the same height, which would hit the ground first? Ignoring air resistance.”

“The ball.” They say in unison.

“Let me rephrase that: if I dropped both of you off a building at the same height and at the same time, who would hit the ground first?”

Hinata snickers, “Kageyama of course.”

Tsukishima rolls both their sheets and hits them each on the head. “Wrong.”

“Of course! Hinata is definitely heavier than me—“

He hits them again. “Debatable but still wrong. Do you seriously even want to pass your exams?” Tsukishima checks his phone again and runs a hand through his hair. Had it not been for Ennoshita forcibly keeping him until the team’s practice had ended, he would’ve been at home resting by now. “The force of gravity acts as the acceleration. Since gravity remains constant then you can neglect the weight of the object. Therefore, as long as the distance remains the same, both objects would reach the ground at the same time. Just stick to the formula and analyze the question. Any questions? No? Thought so. Alright I’m going home.”

“Tsukishima! You’re just cranky because you had to stay late.”

He zips his bag and shoulders it, heading to the door for his outdoor shoes. “If you both took the extra effort to listen in class then I wouldn’t have to.” He turns to the third years sitting a little further away. “I’ll take my leave - “

“You know,” Kageyama cuts in. “It would’ve been a lot easier if you were just on the team.”

A silence lapses over the room. Tsukishima has a hand pressed against the door, his face remains still. He barely notices the footsteps outside and moves his hand out of the way when thne frame slides open.

“Pardon me— oh, Tsukishima? I didn’t think I’d see you here.” He gives Yachi a curt bow, taking note of the study material in her hands. He can’t laugh when he notices Ennoshita stiffen from the corner of his eye. “Sorry I was late everyone. Did they ask you to fill in for me, Tsukishima?”

“Something like that,” he says easily, toying with the painfully dense atmosphere. Yachi scrambles with numerous apologies, he assures her that there was no need for them. 

“Kageyama has a point,” unexpectedly, it’s Yamaguchi who says it. He withers beneath the evident weight before Hinata rushes to his aid.

“Exactly! Even Yamaguchi agrees!”

His gaze falls on the third years. Nishinoya and Tanaka meet him in silence, but their eyes are enough to give it away. _Ah,_ he thinks to himself, _so this explains it._ He thinks of the cues and of his brother. He’ll have to investigate the latter once he gets home.

For the moment, however, he lets himself smile. “My, do you all miss me that much?” He moves a hand over his chest, he motions to the left but just misses his heart. “I’m touched. Sadly, I have a lot more responsibilities to attend to. You’ll have to excuse me.”

He drives his heels into his shoes, bows to Yachi once more and heads out the door.

* * *

_Tsukuru Tazaki had no place he needed to go._ This was like a running theme in his life. He had no place to go, no place to come back to. He never did, and didn’t now. The only place for him was _where he was now._

_(300.)_

* * *

“I’m home.”

“Welcome back.” He raises his head at Akiteru flashing him a smile, a mug of coffee in hand. He must have been heading to his room for a late night study. “I was just thinking about calling you.”

“Sorry,” Tsukishima points his shoes at the door and steps past his brother. “Some people asked me to help them study.”

Akiteru laughs, punching him on the shoulder half-heartedly, “you sound quite unwilling. Now I know it isn’t some pretty girl from class.”

“Don’t project your need for a girlfriend on me, brother.” Akiteru lets out a sound of feigned offense. He accompanies him to the entryway to the kitchen and parts ways with him by the stairs.

“Oh, Kei. You’re back late.” He relays what he’s told Akiteru to her as he reaches into the fridge for what was left of dinner.

“Sorry for not texting sooner, it was a spur in the moment sort of thing.”

“Nothing to worry about. Do you want me to heat it up for you?”

“No, thank you. I can do it.”

His mother stands a good distance away from him as they watch the dish in the microwave. They both lean against the kitchen wall and his mother is the first to point out the notable difference in their height. “You’re still growing taller.” 

“I have a few more years to go.”

“You might be even taller than your father now.”

The small numbers on the side tick away slowly. He lets out a breath that can’t decide on an emotion to convey. “Maybe.”

“Your brother thought you were practicing again.”

His eyes remain on the rotation of the dish within the machine. The heat is dulled against the glass. “I know.”

“One of the alumni told him about the training camp in Tokyo. He thought you’d go to see your friend.”

A quiet chime filters in and the light fades. Tsukishima grabs a kitchen glove and retrieves the dish, setting it down on a coaster.

“Did something happen in one of your dreams, Kei?”

“No,” he says instinctively, but it doesn’t make it any less true. “I just didn’t see any point in it anymore.”

His mother doesn’t probe any deeper into the issue. She keeps whatever words she planned to say to herself. “I guess it’s part of growing up.”

He sits himself down at the table. His mother makes no move to join him. Instead, she steps closer and runs a hand over his forehead, sweeping his short bangs out of his face. “You always did grow up too fast.”

“I’m still a second year, mum.”

“I know,” she smiles softly, almost to herself. She takes a moment before she excuses herself and leaves Tsukishima alone with the rest of his meal. He clears the dishes once he’s through, washing them and setting them away before he goes up to shower.

He picks up Kafka on the Shore before calling it a night, revisiting the pages as though walking through a fond, old landmark of his memory. He doesn't get very far when exhaustion creeps up on him and draws him into sleep.

* * *

_Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something_ inside _of you._

(5.)

* * *

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Tsukishima finds himself flat on the ground, staring up at the infinite abyss that stretches above them in place of the ceiling. He takes the hand Kuroo offers him without a second thought. He helps himself onto the chair.

“I got dragged into evening tutoring.”

“It’s exam season after all.”

“They’re very insistent but can’t bring themselves to pay attention in class. Honestly, it’s somewhat infuriating.”

“I get you. They’re pretty determined but they don’t go the extra leap. Other than volleyball, that is.”

“My point exactly,” Tsukishima leans over the desk, momentarily burying his head in his arms. “This is why one-track minded, hot-blooded people annoy me. They don’t take things into account and invest in things without considering future prospects.”

The wood of the chair clacks when Kuroo moves closer to pat him on the back. “You aren’t wrong. Thank you for your hard work. I assume no one has had the chance to tell you that.”

Tsukishima manages a muffled “thank you.” He rests a little longer before looking up. Kuroo pats him on the back again.

“Out of curiosity, are they studying to attend a training camp?”

“Yeah, a school in Tokyo is holding one.”

Kuroo snaps his fingers, “oh! Yeah I remember Kenma mentioning it to me.”

“Hinata mentioned that name as well.”

“Ah, Kenma is strangely fixated with the shrimp. The way he looks at him is similar to the way he looks when he buys a new game.” Kuroo almost looks sheepish when he turns to him, “come to think of it, I actually got your number from Shrimpy via Kenma. You never asked so now you know that I didn’t do anything weird to get it.”

“It’s questionable but given the circumstances, I’ll let it slide.”

“That’s another way of saying that you’re glad to have met me.” Tsukishima makes a show of rolling his eyes at him. Kuroo continues, “you’ve never been to a training camp, right?”

“No,” he doesn't know why he’s drawn to honesty. “I quit before we had the chance to.”

“I had a hunch you did, but I never found the time to ask.”

“Well, now you know.”

“Would it be alright to ask you for the reason?” Kuroo doesn’t ask as though the issue were made of glass. He doesn’t watch him with sympathy or pity. He asks to know the answer. He asks for Tsukishima’s thoughts alone.

“It wasn’t anything dream related or anything. In fact, I rarely had dreams at that point. I just saw no means to an end. I didn’t find any point in continuing. Maybe I lost interest or grew out of it. It’s nothing earth shattering.”

“I see.” Kuroo makes no move to admonish him. He acknowledges it as a matter of fact. “If you believe it’s best for you then I don’t think anyone should stop you. You made a decent point.”

“I don’t really understand how the sport seems like the world to people. It’s just a club. And there’s still far more to life than just one game. There are future consequences to consider. I know the common goal is to be the best, but that’s a never ending bloodbath in itself, so why bother? What I’m trying to get at is the fact that investing in something with such unsteady foundations will only end up biting you in the back.”

Kuroo nods along with his words. He takes a second to process his explanation before responding. “I share a similar sentiment. I’m not the kind of person who latches on to something for dear life either and you’re right, there are a lot of prospects to consider as well. But a good friend of mine told me something once and I think it’s a pretty good perspective to consider. There may not be a fixed long term goal but he isn’t exactly aiming for it. Instead, he thinks of the moment he’s in, of the fact that volleyball is fun. That people may have a particular moment where they reach their peak and will strive to reach it again.”

“In hindsight, you both are pretty much polar opposites. He’s very present based while you think far ahead in the future. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from each other.”

He turns the words over in his mind, considering them carefully. “Perhaps.”

“You don’t need to take my words too seriously. I just ran my mouth a little bit.”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you for being honest.”

“It’s no problem. Thank you as well.”

“For what?”

“Listening to my insights.”

Tsukishima scoffs after the moment he takes to recover. “Well, it’s good to know you do have a brain up there.”

“And yet, you never hesitate to ask for my wisdom. I wonder what that says about you.”

Once the banter dies down, he and Kuroo exchange thoughts on Kuroo’s progress on Norwegian Wood. He asks him a little more about the day’s study session, to which he recounts the futile attempt at physics which has Kuroo close to falling on the ground.

Kuroo’s words echo in the back of his mind, like the transcripted page remained wide open for him to look through again. He begins to entertain the perspective seemingly polar to his own.

_Was volleyball fun?_

The question circulates but remains unanswered. He doesn’t find it within himself to ponder on it fully, so he sets it aside. He’ll think about it another time.


	5. a question of imagination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated new year everyone.
> 
> I'm sorry this is a little later than usual. The consecutive holidays sort of threw me off track. I might have to adjust the schedule to the max amount of days I typically allow myself which is about 10. I'm stubborn so I'll do my best to make sure it still remains within the week. Class starts tomorrow so I won't have that much time to write that much. I've managed to outline the next four chapters in advance, so it shouldn't be that much of a problem. Again, apologies in advance.
> 
> I'm not particularly sure what came over me, but I'm much happier with these next few chapters. I think I just needed a short break. I was also considering the prospect of going on a little one to get around to smaller fics I want to write so I'm integrating it into the 10 day update system.
> 
> Ramble aside, woo we're starting to pick up the pace. The excerpts included are from Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami. Another novel mentioned is Norwegian Wood by the same author and Kokoro by Natsume Soseki.
> 
> Happy reading everyone.

_ So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine. _

(5.)

* * *

After a morning swamped with classes, Kuroo spends his free periods of the afternoon in his dorm. The airconditioning is blasting out cold in the room, but it’s one of the days Kuroo lets himself get spoiled. The waning summer is merciless and he certainly isn’t spending the afternoon sweating it out after hours of mental labour.

He revises a few notes from his previous lectures before growing too restless and giving in to staring  _ kokoro  _ to pass the time. He briefly entertains the notion of taking a nap, but he’s never really grown out of the childhood habit of neglecting them in favour of playing— or working, with regard to where he is now. The introductory chapters aren’t enough to fully grasp his interest and it isn’t long before the expected call or text from Tsukishima arrives. It’s the latter for today.

Tsukishima had initially seemed hesitant to initiate contact so casually (or in general, for that matter) but the hurdle is overcome after their unconventional meetings in their shared subconsciousness. Kuroo insistently encouraged him to reach out for anything, partially attributed to his nature as an upperclassman and the rest because he genuinely enjoys Tsukishima’s questions.

Per usual, Tsukishima opens by asking if he’s busy, to which he gives an honest rundown of his schedule to pacify him. Upfront, Tsukishima’s blunt and sarcastic nature seems almost contradictory to his persistent politeness, though with further analysis, Kuroo finds that the two factors coincide together. His directness ties in to his value of time. He doesn’t waste time on idle chatter and on trivial matters. Time, in Tsukishima’s eyes, is a resource. It’s energy that’s limited and should be invested in things that are worthwhile. Tsukishima is almost always doing something in his free time. Whether it be day-to-day routine habits, reading, studying or exercising with his brother. There’s always the underlying need for productivity, something Kuroo finds that they have in common. Though he does tend to be a house cat from time to time.

Kuroo carefully takes note of Tsukishima’s questions, answering them in reasonable length. Sometimes it’s a simple misinterpretation of study material, while other times it’s technical aspects in a certain concept or process. Tsukishima is quite academically adept, maybe even more than Kuroo is. He has no problem with any subjects but does find himself in minor blindspots. He’s a lot stronger in topics that require critical thinking and in depth analysis. Systematic methods to get from point A to B are second nature to him. He does, however, slip up in questions that require a handful of problem solving. It’s quite the opposite when it comes to himself.

There’s never really a sort of formal ending to their study sessions. An offhanded sentence leads to a spiel about failed tutoring sessions and notable happenstance during lessons. They both have a good laugh in between critiques of the education system and the lives of others every so often. It’s constructive most of the time, with the rest being light-hearted banter and side comments. He had been worried about oversharing, but he finds that once on a tangent, Tsukishima has quite a lot to say.

He doesn’t think he can say it out loud and if it wasn’t obvious enough - he enjoys talking to Tsukishima. For a lot of other reasons he still needs to find the words for. Tsukishima shares his thoughts in just enough detail, he listens to Kuroo’s and provides his own insights. They could almost go on forever and probably never run out of things to talk about. They’ve talked dangerously close to dawn without any knowledge of the time that had passed, but with school work piling up, the risk has cut down significantly lower.

They could always talk to one another in their dreams, after all.

“ _ You’ve been spending a lot of time at Nekoma.”  _ He’s laying on his stomach, notebooks and loose pieces of paper spread around him. He looks at the phone where Tsukishima’s contact is left displayed on the screen under the name  _ Kafka.  _ He probably should get around to changing it soon.

“Oh yeah. The Tokyo playoffs are starting soon. Kenma and Tora asked me to help out with coaching,” he laughs a little at the mental image in his mind. He would have offered ahead of time, but that would have taken away the amusement of watching the bickering ensue between the duo. “Tora is quite the capable motivator and he certainly does well in pushing the team, he just takes it a little too over the top at times. And Kenma… well, it’s pretty self explanatory.”

_ “Quite the nosy upperclassman, you are.” _

He rests his cheek against his palm, gazing up at the space above him. “I can’t help it. I know how hard they’ve worked and it’s the least I could do for the team. Plus, it’s pretty fun to catch up with the coaches and meet some of the juniors.”

_ “You and your coach talk to one another like two elderly friends,”  _ Tsukishima chuckles,  _ “but that’s only fitting, isn’t it? On another note, I never realized how organized your practices were.” _

“It gets quite crazy at times, believe me. But I guess that’s to be expected of highschoolers.” He picks at the sheets of paper scattered next to him, he begins sorting through them and piling them on one of the notebooks. He squints at the clock on his wall. “I assume Karasuno's is quite a mess if you think ours is organized. Then again, it’s probably to be expected with a team with a melting pot of personalities.”

_ “With the interest of time, I probably couldn’t even get started. It was like being stuck in some after school programme with a bunch of middle schoolers. I’ll let you paint your own picture.” _

“I could hire you as my manager.” Tsukishima scoffs audibly over the phone. “Thank you for keeping track of my schedule, Mr Tsukishima.”

_ “You owe me a raise.” _

“Yes, yes, I promise I’ll get you the next Murakami book as soon as it comes out.” He sets the somewhat organized pile on his desk. Stuffing what he’ll need for his last class in his bag. 

_ “Whatever you say.”  _ Kuroo reaches for his phone, keeping it in his hand when a short pause falls before Tsukishima speaks once more.  _ “Thank you for your help, Kuroo.” _

“You can drop the  _ san _ , you know. Has anyone told you that you’re always too polite?”

_ “I’m ending the call.” _

“Still ever so polite even when abrupt. And it’s no problem by the way. I guess you know that by now which still proves my point.” He begins to rifle through his closet for sports clothes, tucking them in his bag. “Anyway, hope it helped you out. I’ll probably have to get going now.”

_ “Kuroo.”  _ Tsukishima still stubbornly ignores his previous statement.

“Hm?”

“ _ Duck,”  _ he says in English before switching back to Japanese.  _ “You’re gonna need it.” _

Without another word, Tsukishima drops the line.

* * *

_ And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. _

  
  


(6.)

* * *

It’s about a thirty minute train ride from Meguro to Nerima. Kuroo takes to watching the scenery from the window, his hand barely grips around the handle. He moves with the occasional sway of the train. The movement seems like a ripple in the congregation of people commuting. They’re all caught in their own worlds. They all sit in predetermined silence. Kuroo withstands, though it isn’t that hard within the confines of a crowd.

He looks over the places he’s probably never visited, tracing the outlines of fleeting cities and towns. Something about it is clear cut. It’s all neat and put together but also very delicate. Everything is a lot brighter under the rays of summer.

Kuroo lets his mind wander with the clouds. He thinks of going back home, something he’s done for the past few days but is still something he’s getting used to. He thinks of the little changes he probably wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t moved for college. Like how Kenma’s hair is growing a little longer, how his roots are more prominent against the faux blonde hair he won’t bother dyeing anymore. Like how his juniors are growing a little taller, how they’re growing a little broader and gaining muscle. It’s a subtle reminder of the fact that time is passing, that everything is still moving onward towards the distant future.

The train shuffles along the tracks, Kuroo senses the rumbling humming beneath his feet, the crowd sways as it maneuvers onward.

It seems like a movie somehow. Perhaps a novel would be a more accurate way to put it. He wonders if he’s meant to find a foundational epiphany here. The quiet  _ clicking  _ moment, the silent realization. But the more he ponders on it, the more he finds that these moments are scattered across lifetimes. They’re odd patches of colours in paintings, they’re pieces of mineral sticking out in the pavement; they’re brief, minute moments.

He shakes his head.

Perhaps he’s looking into it a little too deeply. The sunlight filters in, he shields his eyes a little in the yellow-white light. Perhaps it is just sentimentality getting to him.

* * *

_ And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about. _

_ (6.) _

* * *

“How was that, Kuroo-senpai?” Kuroo walks over to the ace, he gestures for him to raise his arms into a spike and adjusts them accordingly.

“Your spike is getting a lot stronger, but I think you could do with keeping your arms like this.” Tora lets Kuroo guide his arms into the motions, “You’ll get a feel for the ball with a greater impact. Try it out and see what you think about it.”

Tora nods, calling at Kenma to toss him another ball. Kenma sighs, they’re a little too far out of reach to hear it, but Kuroo flashes him a thumbs up. He watches Tora step back as Kenma throws the ball to him for a receive. It connects and Tora moves simultaneously as Kenma sets it in the air. There’s the jump, spike and the ball slips a little against his palm. Nevertheless, it finds the court floor loudly.

“ _ Don’t mind _ ,” Kuroo and Kenma chorus. The English words snap him at attention.

Tora lines up for another toss once Kuroo manages to string together some words of encouragement. He keeps his eyes on Tora’s approaching form while he ponders on Tsukishima’s cryptic message. Had Tsukishima seen something in his dream? Was he going to end up going to dinner? Kuroo spares a glance toward the coaches. They’ve offered to take him to dinner before, perhaps they would ask for some duck meat? But as far as he knew, none of the coaches were that particular culinary wise. They’d usually take him out to a barbeque and offer him a few drinks. What on earth did Tsukishima mean then?

_ Duck. _

“Kuroo-senpai!”

A ball shoots toward him. It materializes right before his eyes before he -

“I’m sorry!”

Kuroo manages to stop the ball from rolling away with his foot. He picks it up, dusts it off a bit and hands it back to the first year. “It’s alright, I guess I’ve still retained my reflexes after all this time.”

He consoles his junior by correcting his spike technique as well as assisting his partner in receiving. Kuroo moves on once he’s managed to make them laugh it off.

“You seemed pretty spaced out there,” Kenma says once he passes him a water bottle. “I was so sure you’d get hit face first.” Fukunaga snickers quietly somewhere nearby. He wonders what inside joke he’s come up with this time but doesn’t ask.

“Your concern seems so sincere,” Kuroo replies back dryly. He briefly notes that Tsukishima is rubbing off on him a little too much.

Speaking of which.

Kuroo bites the lock open and chugs a generous amount of liquid. He has half a mind to phone him at that very instant but thinks better of it. It’s a war he’ll have later.

For the meantime, “Oi, Kenma. Hydrate more. You need to increase your dihydrogen oxide levels.”

“Please just call it water like everyone else.”

* * *

_ “Good evening, Kuroo.” _

“Don’t ‘ _ good evening, Kuroo’  _ me! Tsukishima!” He can almost feel Tsukishima smiling all the way in Miyagi. Kuroo dumps his bag on the floor, kicking his shoes off unceremoniously as he exaggeratedly fumes over the phone. 

_ “To what do I owe this call?” _

“ _ Duck! _ ” Kuroo half exclaims. There’s shifting on the other end.

_ “What are you talking about? This better not be some prank.” _

“If you’re going to have a joke at least laugh about it.”

It takes a short while before Tsukishima does start laughing, though it’s evident he had initially tried (and failed) to suppress it. It takes much longer for him to calm down, however.

_ “Sorry it’s just,” _ he managed between breaths,  _ “the image of you getting hit face first by the ball I just -” _

Tsukishima erupts in another fit of boyish laughter. Kuroo imagines him wiping away tears of mirth.  _ “I would do  _ anything  _ to print out the mental image. It’s hilarious.” _

“You seem to be having a lot of fun with the prospect of changing the future,” Kuroo remarks, though he can’t keep up the frustrated act. He can’t help the smile tugging on the sides of his lips.

_ “Just because it’s somehow become a possibility doesn’t mean I necessarily want to change it. Though it would come off as biting the hand that feeds me so I took pity on you.” _

Kuroo falls on his back, landing in the middle of the mattress. “Wow. My friends care about me so much. I’m positively flooded with love.”

Tsukishima chuckles and adds on almost sarcastically,  _ “thank you for your hard work.” _

“Yes. Much gratitude.” Kuroo runs a hand through his hair, sighing out loud. “Life as a senior is so difficult.”

_ “Alright, it’s off to bed for you grandfather. I hope you pass away quietly.” _

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

_ “Consider this pay back,”  _ Tsukishima remarks.  _ “I’m merely echoing your words back at you.” _

Kuroo reluctantly sits up, he feels his muscles contracting as he does. “Okay, okay, I get it.” He looks up at the clock. “Well, it’s your bedtime anyway, dear junior. Don’t forget to drink your milk before bed.”

_ “Goodnight.” _

“G’night.” Kuroo hangs up this time.

* * *

He makes it to the Tokyo Playoffs in the following week. He sits on baited breath through each match.

He rushes down the stands.

Tora charges and nearly knocks the air out of him, somehow managing to haul Kenma into their makeshift embrace. Fukunaga strides in and envelopes them warmly. 

Kuroo breathes when it’s all over. 

Nekoma qualifies for Preliminaries.

* * *

_ My heart won't stop pounding. The phone still works, which means my father hasn't cancelled the contract. Maybe he hasn't noticed the phone's missing from his desk. I shove the phone back in the pocket of my backpack, turn off the light and close my eyes. I don't dream. Come to think of it, I haven't had my dreams in a long time. _

(45.)

* * *

There’s a light buzzing by his bedside. It takes him a little while to recognize that it isn’t the sound of his alarm.

Tsukishima blindly pads for the source of the noise, refusing to open his eyes to preserve the remnants of peaceful sleep that remain. His fingers encircle the object he learns to be his phone. Reluctantly, he sits up, peeks his eyes open and swipes it open; unknowingly answering a call he didn’t even know was ringing.

The screen is cold against his ear, “hello?”

_ “You’re probably going to want to switch your alarm off.” _

He reaches for it, bringing it closer to squint at the numbers. It’s a quarter before he’s supposed to get up. He fiddles with the small knobs before successfully complying. “Is there a reason why you’re calling me this early?”

_ “You sound like you’re dying.” _

“Thank you,” he responds in a reciprocal manner. Kuroo chuckles on the other end of the call, it’s gratey and a lot choppier due to the reception. “Now, if you aren’t the one on the brink of death or in dire crisis, it seems I have no choice but to hang up.”

_ “One of the privileges of a university student is that we get to wake up a little later than you slaving highschool students. You can connect the dots after that,”  _ There’s the faint sound of sheets crumpling and the creak of joints being popped.  _ “You can also consider this pay back. Another added benefit.” _

“Are you done?”

_ “Just about, yes. But to get to the point - the quick duo will fail the exams.” _

Tsukishima lets out a breath. “That’s only to be expected.”

_ “Your manager and Yamaguchi are going to fail as well.” _

He sits up a little straighter. The room grows a little colder than it should. “But somehow, I managed to pass.”

_ “That’s right.” _

“It has to be more technical than that. They’re both a lot more diligent with their studies than I am.”

_ “I didn’t exactly see the cause of it. But from what I did see, quite a number of your year failed because of it. Sorry for calling you so preeminently.” _

“It’s alright.”

_ “It’s probably time for you to start getting ready. Your exams are still a little while away, I might be able to see what happens. But for the meantime, what do you have in mind?” _

Tsukishima pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling quietly. He detaches himself from the covers. “I’ll have to think about it.”

There’s a soft pause on the other end.  _ “I understand. Just don’t stress about it too much. We’ll find a way.” _

“We’ll see.”

They exchange a quick goodbye. Tsukishima sets his phone aside and stretches his arms over his head, stretching a little more before he makes his way to the door. He takes another pronounced breath before stepping out the door.

* * *

_ It's all a question of imagination. Our responsibility begins with the power to imagine. It's just like Yeats said:  _ In dreams begin responsibilities _. Flip that around and you could say that where there's no power to imagine, no responsibility can arise. Just like we see with Eichmann. _

(132.)

* * *

Tsukishima shoves the thought in the back of his mind.

He keeps the volume of his headphones a little higher than usual, just enough to block out external sounds and enough to distract himself. He keeps to his own isolation between classes, staring at nothing but the board and his notes, listening to nothing else but the discussion at hand. He goes through everyday norms with heightened focus, keeping them repetitive enough to overlook the inevitable outcome that approaches with each day counting down closer to July.

Tsukishima tries not to catch glimpses of Yachi and Yamaguchi getting dragged around by the freak duo. He keeps to shortened conversations with his friend, keeping his eyes trained on his textbook to avoid the look in his eyes. He always knows what he wants to say and is damn frustrated that he never says anything. Yamaguchi shouldn’t expect people to read his mind, let alone resort to some form of pity at the sight of said expression. He shouldn’t expect to sway Tsukishima with such cheap sentiment.

With the inklings of frustration already creeping up on him, he’s once again glad for Yamaguchi’s silence.

He steers clear of their sessions and remains as far away from the gym as possible (which wasn’t that difficult in the first place). Soon enough, the message gets through, and the pitiful looks are casted where he cannot see. It’s better than nothing, he supposes.

There is no anticipation, no dread or hysteria.

He gets up at the sound of his alarm, he showers, goes down to have breakfast with his family and walks to school with Yamaguchi. The hours will pass, he’ll eat in between, have an occasional text from Kuroo, clean based on his assignment and head home alone. He calls Kuroo (or vice versa) and gets help in reviewing. He has dinner, showers again, then chooses between studying a little bit more or reading.

That is roughly all he plans to do for the rest of the year.

He can drown out the inevitable in normality, drown out the extraordinary in the mundane. It’s the blissful ignorance he will allow himself. It’s one he  _ has  _ allowed himself. It’s reasonable ignorance. It is rational. It is how things should be.

Kuroo might have been right about being able to change the future, but it’s a lot more difficult than that. Nothing can ever be that simple.

They can manipulate events directed to them, they can easily change schedules, choose when they want to cross the road or change direction. But they have no reigns over things like this.

_ “It’s an instruction,”  _ Kuroo says like he’s finally found the answer for an equation.  _ “There’s a specific part of the test you aren’t meant to answer. The number of points the test part was originally worth would be the number of points deducted from you if you filled it out.” _

Tsukishima takes in the words but does not answer.

_ “Tsukishima?” _

He swallows the metaphorical lump in his throat. “We can’t change something like this.”

Kuroo waits for him to continue, so he does.

“If I told these four people about it, it won’t stop the fact that a handful of people in my year would fail. If I eliminated that factor by telling everyone, then that’s just out of the question. And even so, there’s no guarantee that the whole portion alone will be enough to get them through. There could’ve been a trick question, could’ve been much more difficult problems - there is no changing the future when it involves this many people.”

_ “Despite your best efforts, people are going to be hurt when it's time for them to be hurt.” _

Tsukishima feels himself come to a stop. “Norwegian Wood.”

_ “That’s right,”  _ Kuroo replies.  _ “Did you know that the quotes you like are bolder in the copies in the mind library?” _

He didn’t.

_ “It’s pretty interesting to think about. You avoid inconveniences at any cost, you avoid investing into things you find pointless to avoid wasting energy as well as getting hurt in the process. You look out for the few people you care about in that manner as well. Yet, you find the quote notable. In my perspective, I think it serves as a reminder to you, something you might have left for yourself: people are going to have to hurt sometimes, and there won’t be a way around it.” _

“I see your point,” Tsukishima says. “But it’s almost ironic when you think about it. That quote is just the reality of these dreams - we’ll see people get hurt and we won’t be able to do anything about it. That’s what that quote means to me.”

He hears Kuroo tapping against his desk. He imagines it to be rhythmic progression.

_ “Objectively, at a wider scope, we may not be able to change much of the outcome. I also have to say, I’m a bit surprised at how morally upright you are, I guess I learn something new everyday. But with the task at hand, I’ll leave it up to you on how you want to go about it. Though I don’t think it would hurt to try. Perhaps that’s just an instinctive reaction on my part.” _

“Perhaps.”

_ “You should probably get some rest, I’ll probably stay up a little longer to look over some stuff.” _

“Thank you, Kuroo.”

The tapping stops.  _ “What for?” _

“For putting in the effort.”  _ For trying. _

He hears the smile in his voice and pictures it clearly in his mind.  _ “I guess I’m still a rookie compared to you, huh?” _

“You’ll learn.”

_ “I’ll be sure to pay attention. Anyways, goodnight, Tsukishima.” _

“Goodnight, Kuroo”

* * *

_ You're afraid of imagination. And even more afraid of dreams. Afraid of the responsibility that begins in dreams. But you have to sleep, and dreams are a part of sleep. When you're awake you can suppress imagination. But you can't suppress dreams. _

(138.)

* * *

He’s probably out of his mind.

“Yachi,” he calls from the classroom door. Thankfully, the room is predominantly vacant.

“Tsukishima?”

He is  _ definitely  _ out of his mind.

They move into the corridor, where Yamaguchi is loitering, they move to stand right beside the wall. 

“What’s this about, Tsukki?”

He drags a long breath like a cigarette he never intends to smoke. “I need you to pass the message to the freak twins, but keep this in mind yourselves as well. Read every instruction carefully for each of the exams, got it? Reread it twice if you have to.”

Yachi nods frantically, physically startled by his directness. She seems to want to ask a question, but with one look at her wristwatch, she decides otherwise. “I better hurry then! They’re usually at the gym at this hour and I might not be able to tell them before the exams start. I’ll see you both later!”

“Be careful, Yachi!” Yamaguchi calls after her just as she nearly trips over her own feet.

Tsukishima turns to walk back to his classroom when Yamaguchi shoots him a knowing look.

“So you  _ are  _ having dreams again,” his friend says quietly, though there isn’t anyone within the vicinity to overhear. Tsukishima keeps his expression even. He considers checking himself into a mental ward at the end of the week.

“Just don’t be careless.”

He walks back to the classroom ahead. Yamaguchi takes a little longer to follow.

* * *

Tsukishima watches the second hand tick away.

His paper is turned over, reviewed with most of the second part left blank as per instruction. He notes the foreword the proctor had given, but it’s a warning hidden in layers of words. It’s hidden in normality. The world does find a way to be quite ironic.

A handful of his classmates are still writing away while a few have managed to catch on. He’s limited to his peripherals and no matter how superb they may be, they serve no guarantee that Yachi and the freak duo are doing well in their own respective classrooms.

The minute hand moves once the second has ticked sixty times. There’s still a bit more time to go. He observes, he counts, he waits.

* * *

_ “You alright there, Tsukki?” _

He drops his bag onto the floor and takes a seat at his desk. “Since when did you call me ‘Tsukki’?”

_ “It’s what Yamaguchi calls you, isn’t it? And while we’re on the topic, how did it go?” _

“They failed.”

The tone in Kuroo’s voice can only be described as  _ reaching.  _ Like he’s trying to stretch it over the distance to reach where he is.  _ “I’m sorry, Tsukishima - are you laughing?” _

“No. Definitely not.” It overtakes him and he laughs without shame.

_ “Seriously, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” _

“I was telling the truth,” he swipes a wayward tear from beneath his glasses. “They did fail but with the alarming number of students that did, they decided to overlook the instruction.”

_ “Well who would’ve thought.” _

Tsukishima halts at the uplift in his intonation and analyzes the words in his mind. His gut kicks at him. “You did. You knew this whole time, didn’t you?”

_ “And you tried to help them.” _

“I was right in the end.”

_ “But you tried to help them nonetheless.” _

“Whatever floats your boat, Kuroo. It’s summer break now, it’s over and done and I was right.”

Kuroo breathes a laugh on the other end.  _ “How insistent.”  _ There’s a yawn.  _ “But I’ll concede. I have a few more exams before we’re released. I can’t wait to be able to sleep in again.” _

“That’s quite depressing.”

_ “It’s how school life goes. Have you got any plans?” _

“We might travel, but I haven’t received any word about any plans yet. I’ve been thinking about getting some more books so there’s that.”

_ “Does that mean you’re coming to Tokyo?” _

Tsukishima looks up at the books lined up by the dinosaur figurines on his shelf, mentally taking note of each of them for the tentative titles he’ll have to look for. “Probably.”

_ “Do you wanna meet up? It’s a bit strange to travel to Tokyo for such a short amount of time. I would bring up the fee, but I assume you’ve got the student discount as well.” _

His gaze falls back on his phone and the contact that reads Kuroo’s name. “You want to meet me in Tokyo?”

_ “Yeah, I could show you around. From what I know, there aren’t any new releases for Murakami, though I guess there's quite a number of his novels you haven’t read yet,”  _ Kuroo pauses as though in thought.  _ “Sorry, was that too forward?” _

“I could lend you my books,” Tsukishima is unsure if the voice he hears is even his own. He’s surely lost his mind at this point. “You’re pretty careful with your own and it’s a bit strange for you to have to read it in my subconscious.”

_ “Glad you trust me with them. Only a heathen would be so careless. We also haven’t met in the mind library for quite a while, haven’t we? It’s funny that we’re planning to go to an actual one.” _

“Circumstance is a strange thing.”

_ “It is.”  _ He doesn’t mean for a silence to lapse over them. Tsukishima’s never been really good with conversation, but Kuroo never seems to mind it. He brings it back to speed almost effortlessly.  _ “Do you want to meet after my exams? I’ll leave it to you to decide the date since you’ll be the one heading out. I can pick you up at the station if you’d like.” _

“Would that be alright?”

_ “It’s the least I could do.” _

Tsukishima leans further into the backrest, snickering quietly when he adds, “do you want to see me that badly?” If anything, he should have expected Kuroo to reply in a similar manner.

_ “You know, I could almost say the same thing. You’re the one taking a four hour train ride to come see me, are you not?” _

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Kuroo laughs. It’s a lot clearer than it used to be.

“You should get going. Don’t you have exams?”

_ “I was thinking the same thing. I’ll do some reviews before I go to bed.” _

“For a college student, you seem to have a lot of spare time.”

_ “I make time for things I’m interested in.” _

Tsukishima scoffs, “you procrastinate, more like it. Go before you come crying to me because you failed.”

_ “Have a little more faith in me, my dear junior. I’ll head off now to stop you from worrying.” _

Tsukishima bids him goodnight, unsure of who actually hung up first. He slumps onto his bed, stretching a little before reaching for  _ Kafka on the Shore. _ He’s lost count of how many times he’s reread it. Though he knows exactly what to expect, he always manages to uncover a little more, he manages to peek into the smallest of cracks he hadn’t noticed the first few times. People often say that good books have that sort of effect.

He decides to finish it once more before he lends it to Kuroo.

_ "From my own experience, when someone is trying very hard to get something, they don't. And when they're running away from something as hard as they can, it usually catches up with them. I'm speaking generally, of course." _

_ "If you generalize about me, then, what's in my future? If I'm seeking and running at the same time." _

_ "That's a tough one," Oshima says, and smiles. A moment passes before he goes on. "If I had to say something it'd be this: Whatever it is you're seeking won't come in the form you're expecting." _

It’s page one hundred and fifty-three. He closes the book and sets it down along with his glasses.

He feels his breath begin to even out, feels the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Behind closed eyes, he sees nothing. He clings onto it, he lets himself sink into it. The darkness remains. Tsukishima falls into a dreamless sleep.

  
  



	6. the smell of an earlier time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy krtsk day everyone !
> 
> Wifi's been a bit floozy for the day but this (hopefully) manages to pull through. This chapter's a long one, though I anticipate the a few future ones are going to be a tad bit longer. I have the estimated number of chapters on hand, but I'll wait until mid chapter 7 or 8 before I finalize it. The ending is already in place so I'm just leaving a bit of space to add any additional scenes if I see it fit.
> 
> Thank you to Chi and Jell for beta reading, I'm sure this is a lot more than the usual. I wrote a lot of this at 1 am and the song 좋아합니다 (I like you) by day6 persistently decided to pop up and it,, it fits. To an extent. A lot of this is fairly platonic for the mean time, but feel free to draw the dots together however you wish.
> 
> Oh before I forget - thank you for 1k hits haha thank you for sticking with the story. I'll do my best to finish it well. Happy reading everyone.
> 
> excerpts are from: Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami  
> Works included/mentioned: The Metamorphosis my Franz Kafka, The Catcher in the Rye by J.D Salinger and I am a Cat by Natsume Soseki

_ "Chance encounters are what keep us going.” _

(23.)

* * *

Tsukishima feels the joints in his arms and shoulders pop when he stretches them over his head. He sits up, blinking the residual of sleep from his blurry eyes. The room is bright despite the lack of any artificial light. He touches down on the chilled floor, walking over to the window.

Today, he draws the blinds open. He looks out and the sun isn’t as blinding as he had thought. The sky is a clear blue and without a doubt, there is no longer any trace of spring. He looks toward the sky, eyes bare and ever blurry. He traces the clouds he can’t name with the childlike thought of reaching them if he stood somewhere high enough. He looks into the distance, something the ophthalmologist had encouraged him to do every time he goes to visit, but he’s long accepted his visual impairment. He looks up, regardless. He feels his gaze stretch further and further away until he settles on something in the sky. Until he finds the moon, peeking from behind one of the clouds.

He steps away from the window, leaving the blinds as they are. He switches off the knobs of the AC, grabs the clothes he had prepared the night before and heads in the direction of the bathroom.

Tsukishima is left in the empty living room with two sticky notes on the fridge. He makes breakfast for himself (which isn’t much since he usually opts for cereal) and eats in silence. He washes his bowl and spoon, letting the cold water run over his hands, knowing full well he will miss the sensation once he’s subjected to the heat of the summer. He sets them away to dry and heads back upstairs to brush his teeth.

He brings a messenger bag this time and carefully inspects the arrangement of the two books he brings along to ensure that neither of them are subject to damage during the course of the trip. Tsukishima double checks everything in the house, just because he has a penchant for missing little sensory details, before locking up once he’s got his shoes on.

It strikes him then, that it’s a little bit like deja vu. Except for the fact that four months ago, he would have never expected this. He would have never expected to be walking toward the station to meet the person who had sent the strange text to him that day. He would not have expected that said stranger would turn out to be a face from long ago, a face he would eventually end up seeing in his dreams. 

Tsukishima surely would not have expected them to be something like friends.

He stands on the platform for the first time in months, he glances at the clock counting down the minutes before his train is set to arrive. It doesn’t take long before it pulls in and the automated voice announces the doors open. He takes a breath, crosses the gap and takes a seat. Tsukishima keeps his eyes on the doors until they close and the train moves forward.

Part of him wonders if this was what it would have been like had it not been for the coincidental series of events on that day. He wonders what it would have been like had never received the text Kuroo, had fate not led them to meet once again. He looks up and follows the lines of detail on the train’s parts like he’s slowly tracing the timeline where his life had continued without his dreams. He thinks about empty afternoons, quiet nights, and peaceful mornings. Rationally, the very scene seems like the best possible scenario. It’s mundane, mellow, and it conserves his energy. But somehow, (and it could be the inklings of insanity finally getting to him) he finds himself stopping. He takes a step away from the lines and visions just as the train exits a tunnel.

Tsukishima wonders if Kuroo knows what the clouds are called. He’s the type that knows these kinds of things.

The city is vibrant in the morning. The sky is as blue as it was through his window. Buildings rolled along and towns passed them by. The train surged forward in a speeding pace and the routinely expected quiet wasn’t as deafening as it was in the lonely corners of the world. The air had the weight, it was lived in and alive. For once, it takes a little longer for him to decide to put his headphones back on.

He reaches into the bag he’s placed on his lap, taking the grey book into his hands. He runs a finger over the cover and the characters that spell out the word  _ colourless.  _ Maybe that was the word he was looking for.

Tsukishima Kei was once comfortable in his colourless life. Perhaps he hadn’t realized it then. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed when the world around him had lost its colour. Though he was no Tsukuru Tazaki, he had found himself staring at a door, unsure of whether or not he wanted to pass through; unsure if he even had the energy to open it.

That was until the sun caught in the curtains of his window.

He doesn’t like to think of it as earth shattering or axis shifting. He just thinks of it as the world turning, just as it always does. He isn’t staring into the sun and going blind. No, Tsukishima still lingers in the patches of shadows. But that’s how it is. Light and dark balance out each other and it would be foolish to assume one can exist without the other.

Tsukishima just decided to pull the blinds open.

The door still stands at the other end of the room, but he isn’t ready to open it. Not just yet.

* * *

_ “I see,” Sara said. “For a science type, you certainly can get pretty passionate.” _

_ “It’s the same as building a station.” _

_ “How so?” _

_ “It’s simple. If there’s no station, no trains will stop there. The first thing I have to do is picture a station in my mind, and give it actual colour and substance. That comes first. Even if I find a defect, that can be corrected later on. And I’m used to that kind of work.” _

(291.)

* * *

Tsukishima fidgets with the strap of his bag once he disembarks. Tokyo station is still bustling about, he moves a little quicker to avoid getting trampled by the crowd. It feels surreal and it makes him feel spaced out, the constant movement makes it a little difficult for him to focus.

“Tsukishima!”

He silently thanks whatever genetics Kuroo had inherited to stick out so much. He faintly acknowledges (with a sigh of relief) that what he had thrown on this morning seemed to align with Kuroo’s own choice in attire. Despite the inherent heat of the summer, Tsukishima still felt a little odd wearing such casual attire.

Nevertheless, Kuroo makes his way over to him and greets him like an old friend.

“Glad you made it here in one piece.” Kuroo pats a hand on his back. The familiarity is almost foreign to him. He reminds himself that the person in front of him, the person he sees and meets in his dreams, is standing right in front of him, flesh and bone. He nods, not trusting himself to speak as they weave through the sea of people.

Without a word, the hand on his back returns, slowly guiding him through the various lines. Tsukishima glances over at Kuroo whose eyes remained darting around the station for where they were bound to exit. He breathes while he can, and it’s a little easier now. “That’s a first.”

“What is?” Kuroo asks, reaching for his card which prompts Tsukishima to do the same. They stand behind the small queue of people, though it cuts down at a quickened pace. Kuroo motions for Tsukishima to swipe ahead of him.

He lingers a little further away to wait for Kuroo to pass through. “You aren’t dressed like you’re going to a funeral.”

Kuroo laughs. It’s a lot different in person. “In this heat? Never. And mind you, it’s a smarter way of dressing in colder seasons.”

“Whatever you say.”

They’ve made it out onto the street, waiting for the pedestrian light to change before they cross to the other side. Kuroo instigates conversation easily, pointing out the streets Tsukishima has only seen in passing. He tries to explain how to get to his college from where they are and the little stores surrounding nearby. He asks him about school, about what came out during the exams and draws out stories from him. It’s no different from what normally do, but Tsukishima wonders how he can do it so easily. He finds himself wandering aimlessly in circles for the words to say.

“You were kind of right about Norwegian Wood,” Kuroo says, adding that they’re a little closer to the library now. “It made a lot of good points about ideologies and people. I liked Nagasawa in particular. He’s a little eccentric but his mind’s in the right place.”

“I can’t help but notice the similarities you both share.”

Kuroo seems to weigh his words before blinking heavily when they come to a stop. “I hope you don’t mean it in terms of his, well,  _ nocturnal _ activities.”

Tsukishima makes a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “Please, the thought never occurred to me.”

“You know, I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.”

“Well, you’re both kind of sporadic. You also have the strange ability to learn things quickly and have a vast knowledge on the weirdest things. I guess narrowing it down would be saying that you’re both quite street smart. You exude the same kind of aura minus the fact that you are, in fact, something close to a nerd.”

“I’m equally flattered and concerned,” Kuroo says. They fall into step once more. “But thank you? In a sense. I did like something he said. I think it was something like:  _ if you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.” _

They push past the doors, both sighing aloud when the cool influx of air conditioning hits them. He leaves his bag in the check-in counter, taking the pen from one of the pockets to write it the reminder down on the back of his hand. Kuroo asks him for the pen before he places it back in its place.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing it down so both of us have a better chance at remembering,” Kuroo clicks the back shut, placing it back into one of the pockets before they enter together.

He doesn’t have much of a plan in mind and opts to follow Kuroo over to the classical section, never missing the chance to point out his aged interest. 

“How fitting,” Tsukishima comments out loud. Kuroo regards him with a quick chuckle.

They roam the shelves a little more, chatting off handedly while they browse over the titles before eventually retiring to one of the more secluded tables. He’s about to take the seat beside Kuroo before deciding otherwise almost reflexively. They sit across one another instead.

“It’s a little different from the mind library,” Kuroo says in a quieter tone. Tsukishima shrugs as he sets down his own books.

“That place only exists in my head, after all.”

Kuroo offers a smile as he opens Franz Kafka’s The  _ Metamorphosis.  _ “I guess you’re right.”

He examines the copy of  _ The Catcher in the Rye.  _ The book is quite miniature, fitting into the palm of Tsukishima’s hand and stretching only a little below the second joint of his fingers. The page corners are a little yellow with time. It prompts him to remember a quote from one of the novels in his bag. He opens the book (from the left side), making sure he doesn’t crease its slightly worn spine, and begins.

* * *

_ When I open them, most of the books have the smell of an earlier time leaking out between the pages - a special odor of the knowledge and emotions that for ages have been calmly resting between the covers. Breathing it in, I glance through a few pages before returning each book to its shelf. _

(38.)

* * *

Silence ensues but just as it was on the train, it wasn’t necessarily empty. He can hear the pages turn if he tunes in enough. He sometimes catches him and Kuroo turning them at the same time which prompts him to return to the story. Somewhere in the middle of the book, he acknowledges the weight of Kuroo’s leg leaning against his own, but he makes no effort to swat it aside. He looks up from the pages, watching Kuroo’s eyes run over the book, his lips resting in a line. He had imagined a sort of gentleness to it, something that revealed the hints of the smile. But instead, Kuroo seemed blank. Like he was free of the remnants of residual emotion. Perhaps the closest thing he could label it would be  _ wistful thinking _ .

There’s movement behind his eyes, his features furrow ever so slightly, but it ends in the blink of an eye. Kuroo meets his eyes before he has time to look away. He might as well beat him to it.

“You alright there?”

Whatever remark Kuroo had templated seems to die on his lips. He takes a look back at the page, looking over the words like he was making sure he hadn’t been mistaken. “It’s quite a painful depiction of cruelty, partially because of how realistic it is, overlooking the fact that the main character does turn into a giant insect, of course.”

“His family ends up abandoning him once they’ve proven he’s become incapable of providing for them financially. It’s harsh but to an extent, it’s reality. I guess the metamorphosis, so to speak, could be imagery for someone sort of changing as a person. Gregor is still very much human which raises the prospect of changes you can’t help revealing the true intentions of others towards you. Sorry for the jumbled explanation.”

“No, no I see it.” Tsukishima examines the designs decorating the cover as he searches his memory. “From what I’ve heard, it’s very well  _ Kafkaesque.  _ It’s a difficult expression to place accurately, let alone translate, but I’ve heard that a good example of it would be how Gregor wakes up and automatically shifts his focus to his job. It’s something like the instinctive reaction rooted in bureaucracy one has in face of an existential crisis.”

Kuroo nods like he’s reading over his words, “I assume it’s a pretty common theme with Kafka’s works then.”

“It’s appropriate to the time period, I guess. Writers who arise from certain periods and certain backgrounds tend to have those factors as a defining factor of their work. Kafka was a working class citizen which explains how familiar he is with extreme forms of one’s slavery to bureaucracy.”

“Writers always tend to leave pieces of their souls in their work,” Kuroo adds. He sets the book down, resting his forearms on it which cues Tsukishima for the upcoming conversation. They’ve probably been reading for quite some time already. “Was he the inspiration for Kafka on the Shore?”

“Partially.” Tsukishima resists the evident fondness he has for the topic briefly in favour of pointing out the needle in the haystack. “You may be an extrovert, but your conversation patterns are strikingly obvious sometimes.”

“Always two steps ahead,” he raises his arms in surrender, leaning against the back of his seat. “You got me.”

“Did you read Kafka’s book for the soul purpose of asking me about Kafka on the Shore?”

“Not particularly. I’m not  _ that  _ scheming. I was actually quite curious about Kafka’s works, but the additional curiosity of the novel was a driving factor, I’ll admit. The conversation just happened to lead to the topic, a partial coincidence. Though you aren’t one to talk.”

Tsukishima scoffs, “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“You asked me about No Longer Human for the sole reason of warning me about what you had seen in your dream.” It takes him a few seconds to trace the thought, pinpointing it to the night he had foreseen Kuroo’s tardiness to one of his lectures. He’s guilty as charged, but he is certain nothing in his face gives it away. Kuroo smiles triumphantly despite it. “But that aside, you haven’t expounded on your answer.”

He lets Kuroo win their game of perception this time. “Kafka Tamura does look up to Franz Kafka, but it isn’t the entire premise of his identity or the story. It’s based on a Greek myth of Oedipus Tyrannus who escapes town to escape a terrible prophecy, just as Kafka Tamura does in the introduction of the book. The story alternates between Kafka and an old man named Nakata who undergo circumstances that end up connecting with one another, though the two never do actually meet. It’s just an exploration of various surrealistic elements as well as an insight to Kafka’s insights as a fifteen-year-old.”

“Was that a large part of what drew you in, then?” Kuroo asks, his gaze remains fixed on him. “Because you could see yourself as him at fifteen?”

“You could say that,” Tsukishima replies, unable to hinder his sense of honesty. “I can say it’s a lot different to read it at fifteen. Maybe it just feels a little more real.”

“I’m getting the sense that you wouldn’t want to spoil the rest of the book for me.”

“Definitely. I don’t think I would be able to summarize it well enough to do it justice.”

“In that case,” Kuroo stands, taking his book in one hand and tucking in his chair with the other. “We should probably head out. Though unfortunate, I can’t have you spending your time in Tokyo in the library. I want to go have a look at something to borrow for class so you should head to the counter ahead of time.”

Tsukishima watches Kuroo climb the stairs two steps at a time before clearing up and heading in the direction of the take out desk. He exchanges the library copies for newer ones, stepping over to one side of the long desk as he waits for them to be wrapped. Kuroo arrives a little while later and falls behind in the short line before successfully reuniting with him.

He presents his receipt to the information desk and retrieves his bag.

“I’m glad you remembered,” Kuroo says. “I was just about to remind you.”

The doors slide open for them as they walk out. “That’s a lie. You were definitely spaced out.”

“Actually, I was about to give you something.” Kuroo holds the wrapped book a little closer to him, the cover reads  _ I am a Cat by Natsume Soseki. _ “Happy birthday.”

Tsukishima looks down at the book then back at Kuroo. “My birthday is in September.”

“Happy two months early birthday.”

“You didn’t - you didn’t have to - “ In all honesty, his instinctive reaction would have been an outright  _ why  _ but he does have  _ some _ social intelligence. Though it leaves him stammering like a fool. A socially decent fool, but a fool nevertheless.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. You came all the way out to Tokyo, after all.”

“I came on my own accord - “

“Prompted by my suggestion.” Kuroo insists, “besides, I wanted to get it for you. It’s satirical and outright sarcastic so I thought it would fit your tastes. I can keep it with me since you’ve probably got your hands full. Can I borrow your pen?”

Tsukishima blinks before complying rather slowly. He still hasn’t fully processed what was going on, let alone sorted out his next course of action. Kuroo uncaps the pen, scribbles something on the back of his hand and returns it. “Just making sure I won’t forget.”

“Thank - thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Kuroo says easily, a similarly eased smile gracing his features. “Come on, there’s a park nearby and I thought we could use a change of scenery.”

* * *

_ “Most things are forgotten over time. Even the war itself, the life-and-death struggle people went through is now like something from the distant past. We’re so caught up in our everyday lives that events of the past are no longer in orbit around our minds. There are just too many things we have to think about everyday, too many new things we have to learn. But still, no matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away. They remain with us forever, like a touchstone.” _

* * *

They find shade on a bench beneath a tree. The cool breeze beneath it is sufficient enough to soothe them from the blistering heat of the sun, though it does appear to be reseeding a little. He and Kuroo talk aimlessly, switching between school concepts and debates or continuing their tangent of novel analysis. Kuroo tells him a little more about the buildings around them, about stories from assisting Nekoma’s training and how he’ll probably help out when he can to prepare them for Nationals.

“You aren’t playing volleyball for university.”

“That’s right.” Kuroo answers the question he leaves unsaid. “It’s a little too much to balance with my workload. Which reminds me, my grades should be out around this time.”

“You don’t seem very worried,” Tsukishima says.

“There comes a point where it doesn’t get to you anymore. Particularly because university is full of failing and miracle clutches.”

Though he reiterates his joking jab about Kuroo’s grades, he has actually never managed to gauge how well Kuroo does academically. He’s had a few classmates that were quite street smart but less proficient in terms of grades. Not that it made them any less intelligent, it’s all just a matter of how well one can retain information and regurgitate it. He has heard that college is a little different, which leads him to believe that the scales are a little higher than he’s used to.

Kuroo’s phone chimes in the middle of small talk. He’s within range to read the screen when Kuroo unlocks the text message. He finds no words while Kuroo settles for a simple, “oh, nice.”

His general average is an A, well within the ninety to a hundred percentile.

Kuroo forwards the message to his sister, typing a quick message before sending it to his father. He tucks his phone back into the pocket of his shorts.

Tsukishima manages a congratulations, still in the midst of recovery. He isn’t very particular with grades but it doesn’t shield him from reacting to a mark like that. Kuroo thanks him and his indifference leaves no trace of arrogance. If anything, he seems a bit sheepish when he carries on a different line of conversation.

He sees a couple of joggers pass on the pavement alongside some cyclists. A few badminton players rally in the grass and a few groups hang out here and there. Kuroo points out the different dog breeds he manages to spot, amusing Tsukishima with his inherent fondness for them. 

“Is that a Belgian?”

Kuroo follows his gaze that stretches a little further than where they are. “No, it’s a German Shepherd.”

“How can you tell?”

“Belgians tend to have a more agile build and they have narrower heads. There’s differences in colouration as well.” Kuroo smiles a little when he watches the dog bound around the grass. “They’re very intelligent, though it takes about two years for them to mature. That one over there must still be a puppy.”

“You know quite a bit about a lot of things,” Tsukishima says.

“That’s one way to put it, I could say the same for you too. I bet you could probably name any dinosaur just based on their silhouette.”

He huffs, “it isn’t  _ that  _ difficult.”

Kuroo laughs. He does so quite a lot. “On that note, German Shepherds are actually called Tyrannosauruses when before they’ve matured. Just a strange intersection of interests.”

“An astute observation.”

“If I ever got a German Shepherd, I would probably name him Rex.”

“What? As a shortened version of Tyrannus?”

Kuroo clicks his fingers, “exactly! I would tell everyone that Rex is just his nickname. His full name would be  _ Kuroo Oepidus Tyrannus Rex.” _

Even he can’t help but burst out in a fit of laughter. “I would pity your children.”

“What are you talking about, Tsukishima? Kuroo Oedipus Tyrannus Rex  _ would  _ be my child. My one and only son.”

“Stop,” he says, trying to regain his breath. “You’re butchering too many syllables at once.”

He and Kuroo seem to notice the same group of kids running into the park, volleyball in hand, attempting to pass it to one another with minimal success.

Their ball somehow ends up rolling near the side of his leg. Kuroo reaches down to pick it up before he does, standing a little to hand it back to the kid hopping over to retrieve it. Kuroo looks like a giant compared to them and, as though noticing the same detail, bends down to the kid’s eye level.

“Thank you  _ oni-san! _ ”

“No problem,” Kuroo replies. Tsukishima doesn’t know if he should be proud of predicting what Kuroo says next. “You should focus on fixing your stance a little. Bend your knees more and stretch your arms a little like this.” He demonstrates a basic platform and Tsukishima almost sighs.

The child, however, looks positively thrilled. “You’re so tall! Are you a volleyball player?”

“Hmm, I used to be back in high school,” Kuroo catches his eye in a side glance and Tsukishima instantly begins to regret making eye contact. “That guy over there used to be one too. We were both middle blockers.”

“That’s so cool!” the boy calls his friends over and they all make a dash to flock around Kuroo. Tsukishima wonders if he can manage to make a quick getaway while they’re still occupied.

“Please teach us!” The small group chimes, bowing to a laughing Kuroo. Tsukishima curses internally for meeting his eyes again.

“Come on over here, Tsukishima!”

Several tiny heads peer over Kuroo’s sides at him. He sighs, leaving his messenger bag beside Kuroo’s belongings. He stands, making his way over to the group and nudging Kuroo a little less subtly when the children turn away. Kuroo chuckles, slapping him on the back as the group splits into two teams, distributing the seniors between them.

Kuroo instructs them to line up parallel to one another and practice some passing. He makes a point of using Tsukishima as visual aid. He glares over at him from the corner of his eye while Kuroo tells him what motions to demonstrate, never wasting the chance to diss him every so often which gets a few giggles from the kids.

“You shouldn’t swing your arms when you receive,” Kuroo reaches over and guides Tsukishima’s arms to mimic the action. “Keep your arms still and steady. When the ball comes, step to where you think it will land and receive it.” Kuroo stands behind him, keeping his arms in place as he explains the steps. Tsukishima can feel his chest press against his back. “Though you shouldn’t be as tense as this guy over here.”

The kids laugh again when Tsukishima elbows him, causing Kuroo to go into a mini coughing fit before amusement creeps up on him. Tsukishima can’t help but laugh a little as well when he offers Kuroo his hand to help him up from where he had tripped. “Don’t be as nosy as this guy, either.”

Kuroo tosses him a ball to receive, earning claps from the group. They continue to rally a little until they get the hang of it which prompts them to chorus a plea for spike practice. They locate a small volleyball court within the park’s vicinity. Kuroo and Tsukishima make quick work of lowering the net to accommodate the average height of the group. 

They let the group have a go at with their own knowledge. A couple of the older ones seem to get the idea, managing a decent one over the net, helping the younger ones who wither in light of the challenge. Kuroo tosses for them since Tsukishima isn’t very sure he can adjust them well enough. Once everyone’s had a turn, Kuroo asks Tsukishima to set for him when he runs up to demonstrate after breaking the steps down, repeating them whenever there was a question. Despite both being the youngest sibling, Kuroo is evidently a lot better with kids which Tsukishima attributes to his time as a third year and a captain.

They set up a mini match with their designated teams, Tsukishima feeling a little lost with his responsibility over four kids. What was he supposed to say? What would he do if one of them fell in the middle of a receive? They all stare at up expectantly, in mild adoration. Tsukishima feels the sweat forming beneath his brow. He wonders how Kuroo does it so easily.

He closes his eyes for a moment, opening them to examine the other side of the court. There was a somewhat equal distribution considering age and height. Tsukishima is aware this isn’t a serious match, he and Kuroo have the unspoken understanding of keeping the effort to a minimal level. But if there’s anything he knows about kids, it’s that they can be highly competitive, which obligates him to come up with some sort of order. 

“A few of you should move to the front for the serves,” he says once they huddle as a group. He squats down a little to make it easier. “Just try to receive it as best as you can. Remember to look in the direction you want to send the ball to and shift your arms to accommoda - to make it easier. You can send it to me if you’re unsure. You should also call out the name of the person you want to pass to.”

They nod enthusiastically, taking their respective positions. Tsukishima stands closer to the smaller ones just in case. Kuroo tosses a coin which has Tsukishima’s side for the first serve. The kids push him to start it off. He wonders if a regular standing serve was far too anticlimactic, but he isn’t really looking to please them. A jump serve would have been too much anyway.

Nevertheless, Kuroo’s team receives it, setting it a little too close to the net which leaves the ball disconnected. Tsukishima reacts with wide strides and easily hits the ball, earning his side a point. The children gather and offer him a round of high fives. Kuroo chuckles at him when he meets his eyes before consoling his own set of grade schoolers.

There are a few misses here and there, but the game continues. It’s lighthearted but very active which reminds Tsukishima of the almost endless energy kids somehow almost always manage to store and exert in one blow. He finds himself looking over at Kuroo quite often and Kuroo reaches beneath the net to tap him on the arm consonglingly.

A call from the other side of the net signals Tsukishima into motion. The ball is set upward, Kuroo offers a quick compliment before rising to meet the opportunity to spike. Tsukishima moves unconsciously, detecting Kuroo’s habit of treating it as a time lag before jumping in front of him, the ball rebounding off his palm.

For a moment, there’s nothing but Kuroo staring at him, unsure of what to say. The kids gather to where they are, praising Tsukishima for his block and begging him and Kuroo to teach them how to do it. Kuroo recovers with a thoughtful smile.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen that up close.” There’s a hand on his back. “Nice block.”

“Thanks.” He’s sure Kuroo catches it when he goes back to attending to the kids, pointing out that it’s a little too advanced for the moment and that he and Tsukishima should best get going. Tsukishima is vaguely aware that it’s a little later in the afternoon.

The kids cry out in protest but eventually thank them, running off into their own little groups as he and Kuroo make their way to their bench. He offers Kuroo his handkerchief when they stop by a vending machine for some water, explaining that he brought a towel along in his bag. Kuroo chides him for his conscientiousness. 

Tsukishima finally gets to check the time on his phone. It's a little over half past three in the afternoon.

He and Kuroo decide to switch around a few things. He replaces the two books in his bag for the two books he bought, placing the two other novels in the bag from the shop. Kuroo also hands him the copy of  _ I am a Cat,  _ showing him where the pen had rubbed off a little on his hand.

They spend a little while longer sitting on the bench and find that a few girls from the group they had accompanied were walking towards them, giggling bashfully among themselves. Tsukishima is surprised when they present him with a few flowers, and they motion for him to take it. He glances over to find Kuroo in a similar situation, though he’s profoundly thanking them for their gifts. Tsukishima quietly does the same, internally wondering how he’s supposed to bring these flowers along with him on the train back to Miyagi.

“Rosemaries,” Kuroo tells him as they’re walking down the pavement.

“For remembrance.”

“A very cute gesture, though I can’t help but notice that you have a few more than me.”

Tsukishima looks at the awkward bundle of flowers in his hand.

“Ah I should’ve known! I swore I heard them saying stuff while I turned away.  _ Blonde nii-san is so tall and handsome~ He’s so cool~  _ You’re killing it with the ladies today, Tsukishima! _ ” _

He scoffs, willing away the slight heat rising in his neck. “That’s weird.”

“I’m only kidding of course, they’re way too young for you.” Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “But I have to agree. You’re very handsome.”

Tsukishima feels his throat go dry, nervous laughter escaping him like a coughing fit. “Don’t mess around.”

“No, I mean it,” Kuroo cocks his head to the side, running his words over in his head. “Oh, that might just be my sister rubbing off on me. Sorry if that came off strange, but I’m telling the truth. I wonder why it usually comes off as weird for one guy to call another one handsome. Girls call one another pretty all the time.”

“That’s true.” He’s heard it from his own relatives a number of times, though he’s sure it’s become a go to compliment at this point. The thought had never crossed his mind, but looking over it, Kuroo does have a point. Somehow, it makes his throat close a little, but it isn’t entirely suffocating.

He looks over at Kuroo, really looking this time. Tsukishima has never really been one for aesthetics, let alone measuring it. He’s pretty terrible at describing people other than obvious features like hair, height and eyes. Does Kuroo have a straight nose? Does he have sharp... eyes? He hasn’t the faintest idea. But he supposes Kuroo does fall within the parameters of a good looking guy. His face is pleasant to look at. His eyes are bright and he always seems to be thinking about something. He looks like he always has something to say.

He has a nice smile. It’s warm, friendly and it’s relaxing. Everything Kuroo does is genuine. He moves because he wants to, smiles because he is amused, laughs full and unabashedly. His hair falls over his forehead strangely and unkept, but it’s an organized sort of mess. Kuroo has an athlete’s build, slightly tanned skin and good height. Surely, he falls within the criteria of being good looking. That’s the conclusion he resigns to anyway.

“Thank you,” he finally says. “You are too. Handsome, I mean.” He winces a little when he trips over the syllables a little, though Kuroo barely pays heed, opting to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

“You flatter me too much, my dear junior. I’m flattered.”

He figures fighting Kuroo off is pointless, so they stumble down the street just as they are. Bantering once more about something they probably won’t remember.

“Are you heading anywhere for the rest of summer?” Kuroo asks.

“My family is going to the UK in a few weeks, we’re going to visit my father there.”

Kuroo’s eyes widen a fraction, mouth going slightly agape. “You’re English?”

“Half,” he says, as though his strikingly obvious mop of blonde hair wasn’t that much of a giveaway.

“No wonder you’re so good at English, you’re practically fluent. That explains why you were reading an English book earlier.  _ The Catcher in the Rye,  _ right?”

“That’s right. I’ve never really had the chance to read it so I thought it’d be a good time to do so.”

“The translated version is by Murakami though, isn’t it?” They stop at an intersection, watching the different car models drive past before the light turns green and they walk alongside the crowd. “But I’m still pretty surprised. I learn something interesting about you everyday.”

He fights back a flush. He’s never been good with handling undivided attention. Let alone when it’s centred around him. “It’s nothing world changing.”

“What’s it like in the UK?”

“Very rainy,” that earns him a laugh. “I haven’t been there in a while, but the climate would sure be nice for a change. I’d rather have rain than scorching heat.”

Kuroo nods, “quite true.”

“Are you planning to go anywhere?”

“I might stay home for a while. Visit my dad maybe. My sister as well, if she’s not too busy.” Kuroo’s mentioned her briefly during various conversations. She’s a lot older than Kuroo, the age gap just being a little wider than his and Akiteru. From what he’s gathered, she’s a pretty successful entrepreneur of an upstart company she started in the middle of university. She tends to move around Asia, visiting Tokyo every so often.

There’s a strange softness that overtakes Kuroo every time he mentions her, one he doesn’t seem to notice. Tsukishima barely catches it himself, but he is certain of its existence, especially within such close proximity. 

“You seem very fond of her,” he points out honestly. The tug on Kuroo’s smile is fainter this time.

“She’s great. She’s an amazing person, she’s smart and outgoing. A little eccentric but it doesn’t take away anything from her personality, if anything, it actually ties it all together. I honestly don’t know what I managed to do in my past life to even be related to her.” His eyes are shining bright with adoration. It makes Tsukishima somewhat ashamed of his own view of his older brother. “I heard she was planning to go to France to take a course. She’s inhumanly proficient in anything she sets her mind to. She’s also insanely stubborn, which is probably one of the few things we have in common. But that’s enough of my rambling. What do you plan to do once you get to the UK?”

“I’m not entirely sure. My mother tends to do most of the planning herself. I’ll probably try to check out a few museums, get a few more books and all that.”

“And dinosaur figurines, I’m sure.” He elbows Kuroo in the side, but it doesn’t stop him from laughing any less. Kuroo asks him about the sights, the people, and a few speculations from what he’s seen in the media. Tsukishima has to lean over a wall to regain his breathing when Kuroo attempts a horrible impression of a British accent while reciting something from  _ Harry Potter.  _

They eventually make it into the station. Kuroo insists on seeing him off at the platform, though he’s a bit grateful it makes navigating the still populated station a little easier. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to having to interpret all the different lines and routes. They loiter around while they wait for Tsukishima’s train.

“Thanks for coming over,” Kuroo says for the nth time. And  _ he  _ calls Tsukishima out for being “too polite.”

“I should be the one thanking you. For showing me around and,” he gestures to his bag, “for the book.”

“Like I said, don’t mention it. I’m glad I got to spend time with you in person.”

A thought hits Tsukishima at the back of his head. “Kuroo.”

“Hm?”

He points up at the open sky. “What’s that cloud called?”

Kuroo squints upward, tilting his head to get a better view before answering. “Probably a cumulonimbus.”

“Probably?”

He laughs, “I could be wrong. Clouds are pretty hard to name. I wonder who took the time out of their day to differentiate them.”

They turn to the sound of the train approaching. It takes a little while to come to a full stop. Tsukishima watches the doors part in front of him. The one in his mind peeks open ever so slightly. It isn’t quite time yet. However -

“Thanks for today,” Tsukishima says before he walks towards the doors, stepping over the gap between the platform and the train. “I had fun.”

Kuroo grins, “I’m glad.”

The doors come to a close, cutting off their intercepted gazes. He watches Kuroo waving him off from the window long after he’s become a faint figure in the distance. He imagines he doesn’t stop for quite a while, just as Tsukishima continues to stare after where he imagines the station to be. He doesn’t look away for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chi's comment:  
> "Oh nice you managed to end it well this time HHAHAHAH"  
> \- she is very done with my indecisive ass /j 
> 
> *the dog descriptions are based on stock knowledge. I do have a German Shepherd, though he obviously isn’t named Oepidus Tyrannus Rex Kuroo. I did consider naming him Jotaro, however.
> 
> I'll be popping in now and again to fix spacing issues, but in the mean time, thank you for reading :)


	7. the shadow of a dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the wait.
> 
> Had a lot of writing assignments for school. Been drawn out a little too thin lately. I’ve also been working on zine assignments. But I am a little excited for chapter 8. This chapter was focused on establishing a few more relationships so it may not be anything too exciting. 
> 
> excerpts from:  
> Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami  
> Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami; and  
> Hamlet by William Shakespeare
> 
> Minor descriptions from Kafka on the Shore
> 
> (mini plug)
> 
> The Haikyuu: Our Story Zine is opening preorders on Feb 13 so please give it a look if you’re interested (!) I’m the writing mod for the zine and spent the last few weeks helping finalize it so it’d be great if you could check it out. 
> 
> [our instagram](https://instagram.com/hqstoryzine?igshid=125szgg9ygb21)  
> [our twitter](https://twitter.com/hqstoryzine?s=21)  
> All the proceeds go to helping out causes in Southeast Asia.

_I didn't have much to say to anybody but kept to myself and my books. With my eyes closed, I would touch a familiar book and draw it's fragrance deep inside me. This was enough to make me happy._

* * *

_I didn’t realize you’d still be awake._

_I don’t feel particularly tired anyway._

_Besides, I’m pretty intrigued with the story I’m reading._

_And why are you awake, my dear junior?_

_I’m in the airport._

_Flight’s not due for a couple more minutes._

_I must have lost track of the time._

_It’s alright, I’ve been quite busy as well._

_Would you like me to keep you company, then?_

_I guess._

_There’s not much one can do in the airport._

_I’m saving my book for the flight._

_How long is the flight?_

_About 13 hours._

_Don’t you get antsy about not being able to move?_

_It sounds exhausting._

_It is, but I guess you get used to it after some time._

_How long will you stay there?_

_Just two weeks._

_Though, I guess it does mean we won’t be able to correspond as much._

_Ah, two lonely weeks without you. I couldn’t imagine such agony._

_Hilarious._

_I think that’s our batch._

_Have a safe flight._

_Stay hydrated and have a good time :)_

_Thank you._

_I guess this’ll be goodbye for now._

_Don’t miss me too much~_

_Likewise._

* * *

Kafka on the Shore is undoubtedly unlike any other novel he has read. It follows a boy who gives himself the name Kafka who runs away from home. There’s an unknown weight he carries on his shoulder as he confides to a consciousness he calls _The Boy Named Crow._ Kuroo patiently follows Kafka’s trials before the story seems to flip into an entirely different plotline.

The story alternates between Kafka’s plight and a report from a strange incident from a school trip in the mountains. From the inner workings of a young, confused, yet somehow certain fifteen-year-old boy to military conversations, confession letters and memories.

Kafka Tamura, he finds, is quite an accurate model of a teenager. Kuroo feels himself step into his shoes, into his skin. He lets himself see the world through Kafka’s eyes and wonders if this is the world he had seen at fifteen. Kafka’s age is a particular detail in the novel, he thinks. But he isn’t framed as naive; he isn’t framed as “too young.” Fifteen, in itself, is a strange age. Fourteen is still too immature, fourteen is still breaking into the soles of maturity while sixteen is when idealism begins to solidify. Sixteen is when the gradual battle toward higher education begins. On this reflection, Kuroo thinks fifteen is a pivotal age that no one ever really gets right.

Another thing he finds interesting is Kafka’s second-thoughts. The first person perspective already gives a transparent view into the character’s mind, but Kafka’s thoughts do not stop at simply relaying information. His intrusive thoughts are displayed for all to witness, his conflictions, his considerations - his humanity. Kuroo has to remind himself that Kafka Tamura is not a real person.

It’s only when Kafka stumbles upon the Kumura library that Kuroo drastically aligns him to Tsukishima. He had first met him when Tsukishima was Kafka’s age, after all. That was around the time Tsukishima says he had discovered the novel as well. Looking back on it, Kuroo thinks that he is seeing the world through Tsukishima’s eyes as well. It’s like he’s looking at an immortalized fragment of his soul that forever remains within the story in the pages. It’s something that comes with reading novel’s, he thinks.

He’s heard people say that by listening to someone’s favourite song - by _really_ listening to it, by taking it apart, by stripping down the melodies to the very last note and internalizing each lyric, one would be able to learn something substantial about said person. Kuroo likes to think it’s a little bit similar to reading someone’s favourite novel.

Novels take time to pour over, and even then, there’s still so much you can miss. It takes reading over it again and it takes a change of atmosphere, a change of insight, or even the change of time to reveal the little cracks in the pavement. It takes time to uncover that one sentence that hits a little more than it should, the one phrase that carries much more metaphorical weight now that you know how the story ends.

And no matter how much Tsukishima has tried to keep it in peak condition, Kuroo can see the slight wear on the pages. The corners crease ever so slightly, the cover doesn’t rest completely flat. The telltale signs of the many nights spent reliving the story and enough evidence for Kuroo to know he will not find dissatisfaction with it. No matter how subjective opinion may be, Kuroo still undoubtedly believes in the merit of Kafka on the Shore. His reasoning stretches past that of it being one of Murakami’s famous novels, it stretches past that of the language, the grammar, and the metaphors. The novel is beyond that of technicality, or his personal assessment.

That is the sentiment of rereading a story over and over again. The ending never changes, but the nuances within the stories do. The way you perceive certain characters, the way scenes can make you feel, the way you answer the rhetoric uncovered along the way. That is the mark of a good story.

He stops reading just as Kafka begins to converse with the librarian by the name of Oshima. Oshima’s introduction carries an air of continual relevance, and Kuroo finds his description to be a little similar to Tsukishima’s. He should probably get around to asking him about his favourite characters once they get in touch.

But for now, he needs to start packing. He’s got most of it done but he can’t escape his habit of procrastinating every now and again. He looks up at the clock to confirm how much time he has left before the evening train he plans to catch. He slips a bookmark between the pages, setting it on his bed before walking over to the open bags filled with clothing.

He blasts some music as he refolds a few clothes, piecing them together in his bag like a puzzle. It’s therapeutic, in a sense, and it lets his mind wander aimlessly. He thinks about heading back to his hometown, about how he plans to drag Kenma out of his house for the summer. He thinks about what Tsukishima is doing on the plane right now, he wonders which country he’s flying over right now.

He’s halfway through folding his shirts when he thinks about Oshima’s intriguing line of conversation in light of Kafka’s slight speechlessness. He spoke about how Aristophanes described something from Plato’s _The Banquet - a_ bout how in the ancient times, the world was divided into three kinds of people: _male/male, female/male,_ and _female/female._ In this account, people were made out of two components before original sin caused them to be cut in half, straight down the centre. Ever since then, the world was divided into male and female, with the catch being that people would spend their lives looking for their missing half. Kuroo wonders if it was the premise for the term _soulmates_. 

What did Oshima’s metaphorical response mean? Kuroo ponders on the thought as he tucks the sleeves in and folds accordingly. He folds the shirt to a fourth before tucking it in with the others. Tsukishima once mentioned that the story was based on prophecy and metaphors, afterall. Perhaps it would be too early to draw any conclusions, but he can’t help but think about what is about to unfold. About the weight these words will carry with regard to Kafka’s story.

Once he’s accounted for most of his belongings, he sets his bags aside and texts his father. He carefully deposits Tsukishima’s novels into his backpack, figuring it’s about time for him to set out for the station. He goes around his room, switching off any appliances and double checking for anything else he had forgotten. He’s never managed to get rid of the feeling of being unprepared, even if he is just going home for a few weeks. Regardless, he shoulders his baggage, slips into his shoes, and locks his dorm.

His father says he’ll pick him up once he arrives. He estimates that he’ll make it to the five o’clock train, which means he’ll probably reach Nerima at about half past six in the evening. He shoots a text to his sister as well, wondering if coincidence will lead to them being able to spend the rest of his summer break together.

Kuroo sends a text to Tsukishima as well, through _LINE_ instead of his email. He should have landed by now, considering their last correspondence at around two in the morning. It’s a little over an hour and a half from the expected travel time, but Kuroo accounts for the time it takes for them to gather their luggage as well as securing a stable wifi connection.

He pockets his phone once he boards the train, storing his baggage on the rack above the seats. He resigns to standing, offering his seat to an elderly woman who enters a little after him. Kuroo supposes he can put off reading for the duration of the train ride, especially because he wouldn’t want to risk damaging Tsukishima’s books in the midst of the Tokyo rush hour.

It’s a little while before he receives a text from Tsukishima.

* * *

_“That’s right, original sin.” Oshima holds his pencil between his middle and index fingers, twirling it ever so slightly as if testing its balance. “Anyway, my point is that it’s really hard for people to live their lives alone.”_

* * *

“Are you sure that isn’t the right one?”

“It does look similar, doesn’t it?”

Tsukishima follows the luggage down before reaching over and hauling it from the line. “I was right, it _is_ ours.”

His brother covers his mouth as he yawns. “It’s not my fault everything else looks so similar.”

He lays it flat on the trolley. “I’m the one with glasses here.”

“Enhanced vision.”

He rolls his eyes, swinging his legs in a premeasured distance to avoid kicking anyone by accident. It would be an understatement to say he’s relieved to be off the plane. It always left him feeling a sense of cabin fever, and the altitude never failed to make his head buzz unpleasantly. At least he can form a coherent thought now.

“Here it comes, the luggage with the weird dinosaur sticker on it. I wonder whose this could be.”

Tsukishima reaches over to his medium sized case, inspecting the Jurassic Park print on one of the corners before stacking it on the others they retrieved. “Seems like your vision has returned.”

“I find the sticker quite cute,” their mother remarks as she makes her way over from the toilets, wiping the residual water on her trousers. “At least we can identify Kei’s case a lot easier, maybe you should consider having one on yours too, Akiteru.”

“Yeah, you should get a nice big _kero keroppi_ sticker. Maybe add the rest of the _sanrio_ franchise on it as well.” Akiteru smacks him on the forearm as their mother laughs at his comment.

They locate the last of their luggage before he and Akiteru push the trolley behind their mother, who leads them out of the baggage claim. He opens his phone, loading his settings before finally being able to login to the airport wifi. Akiteru chats while their mother beside him, occasionally standing on the back of the trolley when the path clears in front of them. Their mother walks a distance to take a picture of them doing it together, which is instigated out of spite and slight deliriousness. 

They walk a little further alongside the rest of the passengers. There’s a crowd of people waiting on the other side of the small divide. Slowly, the crowd thins with various reunions taking place here and there. Tsukishima opts to scroll through his phone a little more. A moment passes before he receives a _LINE_ notification from Kuroo.

“Over here!”

Tsukishima doesn’t have time to respond when his mother motions them. HIs father stands from behind the waiting gate, waving them over. Even outside of work, his father still manages to look like a businessman in his semi-formal attire. It takes him back when his father would be crouching down, arms wide open as he and a younger Akiteru would bound into his arms. It’s been years since then. Now, his father pulls each of them into a side hug, patting their backs affectionately. He and Akiteru don’t quite fit as well in his arms anymore.

“Akiteru! Kei! It’s been quite a while since I last saw you both,” he examines them with the eyes Akiteru inherited. A tiny switch in his brain reminds him of the language shift. “How tall are you both now? Kei must be in the hundred nineties by now by the looks of it.”

“Dad, why couldn’t you spare some for me?” Akiteru laments, earning a light-hearted swat from their mother.

“You’ve grown plenty enough, young man.”

Their father helps them roll their luggage outside the gate, tasking them to wait a little so he can pull the car around. He takes in the air, revelling in the significantly less humid climate of England. It’s a few minutes to nine in the morning, which means it’s almost six in the evening back in Japan. Kuroo must still be on the train to his hometown judging from his text, which reminds him to take a few steps back to stand within range of the wifi.

_Just landed. Heading out in a few minutes so I might be a while._

The message is seen not too long later with a reply following suit.

_Glad you got there safe._

_Take good pictures and pretend you’re showing me around England haha_

He snaps a photo of the space in front of the airport. It’s not the most aesthetically pleasing, but it does have a very English quality to it. He manages to send it to Kuroo just as his father pulls the car up. He shoots a quick goodbye before helping Akiteru load their stuff into the back.

His father runs through the formalities, though one would learn they were in fact, casual questions in the eyes of Mr Tsukishima. He and Akiteru carry most of the conversation. They talk about news, proceedings in Japan and all the things expected of a young man. Tsukishima wonders when Akiteru grew interested in such things. He wonders if there would come a time he would need to be somewhat interested in them as well though he doubts it greatly. Tsukishima remains out of his family’s discussions, opting to stare out at the London sky. The colours are a lot muter, he notices. 

“What are you planning to take for college, Kei?” he meets his fathers gaze from the mirror, “as a kid, you would never stop talking about how you wanted to be an archeologist.”

“I don’t think mum and dad could handle the thought of you working so far away,” Akiteru comments beside him. “Dad and I were just talking about my interview with the stationery company.”

“It’s about time for you to start considering these things. The battle for college begins in highschool, after all.”

“Right? I kept trying to tell him, but he’s usually in his room reading.”

Tsukishima gives Akiteru an empty stare. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“You could take up history, it suits you.”

Tsukishima slouches against his seat, his knees folding behind the passenger seat. He’s too tired for this line of conversation. 

“For someone so future oriented I’m surprised you haven’t decided yet.”

“Planning too prematurely is a waste of effort,” he snaps.

“He has a point,” their father chimes, making a turn at the intersection. “Perhaps he needs more time to deliberate on the options. See which is best fit. But you should still consider it a priority, Kei.”

The sky disappears when they drive into an underpass. Tsukishima watches the concrete pass, humming in acknowledgement to his fathers words. His mind faintly travels to kafkaesque thoughts, about how people are meant to find a job they can work for a “sustainable” life. He thinks about his brother, animatedly talking about adulthood with their parents. College typically tends to shift people’s focus drastically, and before you know it, the kids who talked about travelling the world are now lecturing you about tax returns and how you need to get it together.

It’s idealism taking on a false sense of security, in his eyes. Some do mean well, but others are swept away from the tide. They mindlessly conform to the ways of the world without question. They become involved in political debates, they start picking sides. They start attaching themselves into a greater demographic - a greater “cause” as they often claim.

For once, Tsukishima is relieved he does not have the liberty of such a future.

He closes his eyes just as the sky returns. He still feels Akiteru’s head falling onto his shoulder a few minutes later, but he drifts into sleep soon after. 

He reminds himself it’s still a little too early in the evening back in Japan.

It doesn't stop him from wishing he had seen Kuroo though.

* * *

_Hamlet:_

_How tired, stale, and pointless life is to me. Damn it! It’s like a garden that no one’s taking care of, and that’s growing wild. Only nasty weeds grow in it now. I can’t believe it’s come to this._

(Act 1 Scene 2.)

* * *

_Hello Tetsu!_

_Sorry I couldn’t get back to you right away, work and all that._

_I’ll be back in soon! We should definitely hang out when I do :D_

_Is there anywhere you’d like to go in particular?_

_I’ve gotta head out, but just tell me the details okay?_

_Say hi to dad for me!_

_No worries!_

_That sounds like a plan, though I don’t have any specific place in mind_

_I’ll leave the decision to you since you’ve been away for a while_

_I could research about it if you’d like_

_Dad’s at work right now but I’ll be sure to tell him :)_

_Stay safe! Good luck at work!_

* * *

Weekends are tranquil in the Kuroo household.

He and his father usually go out together on Saturdays. Usually for a bike ride or a trek. Sometimes they go to the basketball court in the park and shoot a few rounds. Saturdays are active, but they’re always a white noise sort of quiet. They both go out and about, speaking of small things mostly instigated by Kuroo, though his father would bring up a topic they would spend quite some time pondering on like the breed of someone’s dog or the way the pavement was constructed.

Saturdays are father-and-son days, he thinks.

Sundays are their rest days. He usually sits down with his father who sets up the living room to watch a movie, usually something related to action. His father always did have an interest for them, particularly mechanically inclined gun movies. Kuroo can sit through most of them, but after a few one-sided questioning of the lead’s plan of action, he decides to leave his father in peace in favour of reading.

He moves to the dining room to pour over Kafka on the Shore, just enough for the faint sounds of the television to be background noise. 

It’s a little darker outside when he decides to call it a day and help his father prepare dinner. He bookmarks the page, sets the book aside, and starts looking up something to cook online.

“Murakami?” His father says as Kuroo sets the table. He assumes he’s reading over the cover from where he had set it on the coffee table.

“Have you read any of his books?”

“No, I’ve never been the academic type.” Which was common knowledge to him. His father has been hailed for his casual intellect, most of his family would say he gets it from him, though in that case, he thinks Kenma somehow managed to steal a few genes from him.

“You should probably go hang out with Kenma tomorrow. The poor boy’s been stuck in his house since summer started.”

Kuroo laughs, “I think it’s more of a voluntary seclusion at this point. Even so, I don’t think I can do that tomorrow.”

“Are you going to hang out with that Bokuto fellow?”

“Now that you mention it, I haven’t heard from him in a while. Then again, he seems to be taking training pretty seriously. But other than that, _nee-san_ told me she’s coming home tomorrow.”

“Oh, really?”

“I was just about to ask you if we were going to pick her up.”

“Hm, she hasn’t mentioned anything about it to me. Her friends might be the ones picking her up, if that’s the case.”

Kuroo nods, a little deflated that they wouldn’t be able to welcome her back first. “I see.”

“I’ll be heading out early tomorrow so I’ll leave it up to you to lock up.”

“Roger that.”

The dinner continues in comfortable silence.

* * *

His father is gone by the time he gets out of bed.

He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness throughout the night, something that typically happens when he anticipates something for the next day. It could be his body’s way of making sure he doesn’t wake up too late, to which he could always just set an alarm, but he finds himself anticipating the time it's meant to go off as well.

Kuroo does get a few naps in with his sleeping position, which has him procrastinating when he does decide to get up and consequently speeding through his preparations. He and his sister were never the type to set a fixed schedule, but he figured it would be better for him to be a little ready before she arrives. He assumes she’s still in the last stretches of her flight, so he technically still has time.

He stands outside once he finishes locking up the house. Looking down both ends of the road for any signs of a silhouette in the distance. 

Kuroo takes a seat on the stairs by his front door and waits.

* * *

“Oh, you’re back.”

He looks up from his phone and to the house across from his. “Kenma! I’ve been back for a few days already.”

Kenma emerges from his front door, carrying a few plastic bags in his hand. He has his hair tied up low behind it, effectively keeping his already overgrown bangs out of his face. “Isn’t it way too early to be locked out of your house?”

Kuroo holds out his keys as Kenma finishes segregating the rubbish. “I’m waiting for my sister to pick me up. She just got back from Korea.”

“Hang on, let me go wash my hands for a sec.”

Kenma walks back into his house. Kuroo imagines the route he takes to the kitchen sink, probably foregoing the towel hung by the handle of the fridge and settling for wiping his hands on his shorts. He emerges not too long later, walking past his gate and crossing the street clad in socks and slides.

“Did you try texting her?”

“Her phone’s probably still on a Korean phone plan so she probably won’t have data to read my texts.”

Kenma takes a seat in the space beside him. “Did you check the airport arrivals?”

“Her plane landed about an hour ago but there’s customs and traffic to consider as well.”

“So is she supposed to come here on her own?”

“A couple of her friends are picking her up.”

His friend nods, “I see.”

“Maybe they’re thinking about stopping over somewhere to get some lunch,” Kuroo looks to his phone, scrolling through their conversation. He really should have considered the option beforehand. “They might have been a little hungry while waiting for her at the airport.”

Silence lapses over them in the light of the summer afternoon. They watch a few stray cats run up their street, going about their own strange lives. They watch the cats pass by without any hints of a vehicle trailing after them. Kenma stares up at the sky while Kuroo keeps his eyes ahead, just like they used to do in the outskirts of the park as kids. Kuroo faintly wonders what Kenma is thinking right now, on the step beside him instead of a large rock he had once claimed was his own special one. He knows better than to interrupt Kenma in times like this, not that he’d have anything to say anyway.

“Do you wanna come over and play a few games?”

Kuroo blinks a little at the question. He looks at his phone, the time, the road. He thinks about how his sister could arrive at any given moment. He thinks about how Kenma is looking at him when he asks the question like he’s gauging his reaction for an answer to a question Kuroo cannot decipher.

“It’d be pretty sad for you to have to eat lunch alone at home anyway. Plus, you can get my parents off my back.” Kenma stands up, dusting himself off. 

“I thought they’d have given up at this point.”

“I wish.”

Kuroo follows Kenma’s lead, looking both ways before they cross. There isn’t a single moving car in sight. “Well I do have to agree, you didn’t even notice me coming back.”

“Well you typically make a grand entrance when you do.”

He takes off his shoes at the door, lining them up to face the door. “I completely passed out once I arrived.”

“And yet, you didn’t come harping at the gate. Maybe college was good for you.”

He scoffs, “if being on the verge of death constantly is what you call good for me.”

“Well it’s a good reason for my absence. If you had died, I wouldn’t want to be there to witness it.”

“How touching.”

“You can’t expect me to spend that much energy. I need to save it for the funeral. They’d probably ask me to say a few words like: _here lies our dearly beloved Kuroo. Who knew his hair could get any worse? Nevertheless, he will severely be missed.”_

He steps into Kenma’s room, crossing his arms by the door frame. “Is this what you think about in your free time?”

Kenma crouches down in front of his television, opening the container full of games, rifling through them like some kind of catalog. Kuroo assumes he still has them in alphabetical order.

“No, but I’m preparing for the inevitable since you mentioned it.” Kenma hands him a black controller as he puts the game in. Kuroo takes it, squatting down on the floor beside him. He waits for Kenma to finish setting up before he switches his own controller on, allowing Kenma to be the first player (as he always is). 

“It’s been a while since I’ve played.”

A cutscene starts with the sound of a waiting helicopter before Kenma skips it. He selects the modes routinely before offering Kuroo a smug side glance.

“Which is exactly why we’re playing a team game. You better remember how to shoot or I’m switching sides.”

Kuroo scoffs, checking himself into the lobby and quickly beating Kenma to class creation. He finds the guns he remembers, quickly selecting his utilities with an exaggerated sense of familiarity. Kenma visibly rolls his eyes beside him, running through his own gun selection before loading the map. 

“The bots are on hard mode, by the way. I could change it if it’s too difficult.”

They spawn on a ship deck, which Kuroo recognizes. He runs ahead of Kenma, up a flight of stairs and onto a vantage point. He selects his sniper, scoping Kenma’s avatar from below.

“Have some more faith in me, Kenma.”

He takes a shot at an enemy bot before it can ambush Kenma, cheering out loud when he gets the first blood.

That is, until, he’s consequently stabbed from behind; to which he realizes it’s been months since he’s last heard Kenma laugh.

* * *

_“There’s only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shapes and sizes. It’s like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness is a_ story.”

* * *

Other than Kuroo’s inherent panic from playing _zombies,_ they do get a lot of conversation in. Kuroo asks him about school, about the team and about anything in general. Kenma, who is usually quite inept at small talk, uses this opportunity to vent. It’s amusing, really. Once Kenma gets riled up, it’s hard to get him to stop. He goes on and on with his complaints, opening up one topic to another. Instead of rambling, it can instead be described as a comprehensive and brutally honest report.

He’s also glad Kenma can get it off his chest. If the rampant and accurate gunshots at the virtual undead were anything to go by, Kuroo is certain he is doing the world a favour. Not that it’s at his expense, anyway.

Kenma briefly asks him about college, to which he responds in a similar manner. It isn’t a very interesting topic to go off of, so they usually end up trailing off into a concentrated quiet, with periodic gunshots echoing as per the sound effects from the game alongside Kuroo’s yelling (which he can honestly admit because he is terrible with horror games. Horror movies are one thing, but simulations where he is responsible for his own death is another story).

“I’ve been reading a lot these days,” he says, as his character runs off into a building to rebuild the barricades. “I’m reading a novel called _Kafka on the Shore._ Have you heard of it?”

Kenma takes a shot with his rifle, backing up to where Kuroo is to reload. “By Murakami?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty interesting. The book focuses on two people, with every other chapter switching stories between them. It’s quite philosophical if you put a finer tune to it, but it’s a pretty strange book too.” He stands by Kenma as his avatar exchanges guns from the drop off box. “The second story is actually pretty endearing. It’s about an old man who can speak to cats.”

“That reminds me of that one novel from _Soseki_ we had to read. I think I saw Coach Nekomata carrying a copy around with him. It’s weirdly patriotic.”

Kuroo laughs, “it fits Nekoma’s personality, don’t you think?”

“It was pretty good. It was the only novel I actually read from class.”

“Because you were interested or because I didn’t hand you down any notes for it?”

There is a loud shot aimed at his character. It doesn’t hurt him, however, but it does make him jump. “Kenma!”

“Last bullet,” Kenma says nonchalantly. He picks up another gun from the box. “You’re lucky friendly fire is off.”

“It’s not like I did it on purpose. I didn’t make any notes for it to begin with. It’s satirical and a bit fantastical which is right up your alley. I think you’d like _Kafka on the Shore_ too.”

“Is it really that interesting?”

“Definitely.”  
  


“What’s gotten you into reading these books anyway. You typically never pick up famous modern novels.” Kenma leads him down the stairwell. “While you’re at it, act as bait real quick. I'm getting the _Voice of Justice.”_

“Tsukishima recommended it to me.” Kenma casts him a side glance while his character upgrades the pistol.

“The blonde middle blocker? Wasn’t that the guy whose number you asked me to get from Shoyou?”

“Don’t insinuate it like that. It wasn’t creepy at all.”

“Why’d you ask for it all of a sudden?”

Kuroo is quiet when he kills the final zombie, sticking closer to Kenma during the short cooldown before the next round. The words remain on his tongue but he says nothing for a moment. He pretends to divert his energy to the wave chasing after them before deciding on something palatable enough.

“I had a dream about him, is all.”

“Yes and that makes it even less creepy.”

“It was just a gut feeling you know? It was like something was telling me to talk to this guy and that the fate of the world depended on it.” Kenma scoffs a laugh, effortlessly rescuing Kuroo from the zombies trailing behind him. “And I found him interesting enough. He’s actually pretty fun to talk to.”

“Shoyou seems to think he’s got a stick up his ass. He seems pretty collected, he wasn’t very overbearing but who am I to judge.”

“I think you’d like him. You two would definitely get along pretty well. He’s pretty cold up front, but he’s actually just a teenager. People could consider him a nerd, though he doesn’t outwardly fall into the archetype. He’s intelligent, snarky, and constantly bears the responsibility of the future in his hands.”

“That doesn’t sound very teenage-like.”

Kuroo sets his controller down when the zombies overtake him. He doesn’t scream, which is a start. “In hindsight, it’s an obligation that hangs over everyone’s head. It’s a responsibility most tend to neglect until later on, but it’s there nonetheless. It’s a teenage thing to ignore it, but it’s also a teenage thing to embrace it. It’s subjective to the person after all.”

“If you put it that way, I guess.”

He watches Kenma continue the rest of the rounds without having to look out for him. Pointing out directions every now and again, to which Kenma thanks him quietly. Eventually, Kuroo snaps out of a reverie he didn’t even know he was in.

“Do they tell him anything interesting?” Kuroo looks over to Kenma, slowly realizing his eyes have been fixed on the same corner of the screen without really looking at it. “The cats. Do they tell him anything interesting?”

“Well, he mostly interacts with them to locate missing cats around the neighbourhood. This old man, Nakata, he’s a bit mentally impaired. He’s lost a lot of his childhood memory and can’t seem to retain anything for long. In short, he’s sort of like a blank slate. Like a human being who only has their outer shell.”

Kenma scowls at the screen when the mob becomes too overwhelming. He’s eventually pushed into a corner, ammoless and surrounded. Kuroo whistles. “That’s a new record.”

“I could’ve done a little better,” his friend comments, leaning against the foot of his bed. “I can sense the literary analysis coming up.”

“Well, because Nakata has sort of lost any essense of a lasting interpersonal being, it’s like he’s lost touch with an aspect of his humanity.”

“Which gives him the ability to talk to cats?”

“I think it’s symbolistic of being able to get in touch with creatures. He meets some interesting characters. One cat in particular, is a lot smarter than he is. She talks to him about operas from Puccini. But it all narrows down to him trying to locate the cat of a family in the neighbourhood and finding out that a lot of cats have gone missing at a particular location close by.”

“Now that I think about it, I can kind of see Coach Nekomata getting paid to do that.”

Kuroo throws his head back and laughs at the mental image Kenma presents to him. He can see Coach Nekomata in Nakata’s plain and neat outfit with a little bucket hat on his head, crouching down on the sidewalk to talk to a little crowd of cats. He doesn’t want to think of the scenery Nakata experiences a little later, however, and directs his train of thought elsewhere.

“The main story centres around a fifteen-year-old boy by the name of Kafka Tamura. He’s on a journey, to find himself and to run away from a prophecy. The two seem pretty disconnected right now, but I have a feeling they’re going to intersect somewhere along the way.”

“It seems like the kind of book someone like Tsukishima would read.”

“It’s his favourite one.” Kuroo adds. “You can learn a lot about a person through the books they read. Or any interests in general actually. It’s like how you play your games. You’re very versatile and strategic, but you aren’t the type to charge into battle aimlessly. You don’t carry everything out in a meticulous plan though, you make it up as you go along and you’re quick on your feet. You’re also somewhat unpredictable, mostly for the sake of trying out something new. When you fixate on something, you take it apart in every possible way to understand it and how to put it back together.”

“You should’ve taken up psychology.” Kenma deadpans.

He crosses his arms over his head and lays back, inhaling deeply. “It was an interesting prospect, but I think I’d get too caught up in taking people apart when I should be solving their problems. But I’m pretty spot on, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know if you’re astute or if you’re just scamming me.”

Kuroo throws a hand over his heart in feigned distress, “Kenma! I’d never do such a thing.”

He gets a pillow in the face. It drops onto his lap before he reaches for it, tossing it back at Kenma who catches it easily.

“You’re the reason I got into this mess in the first place.”

“And you’re the one who stuck around.”

Kenma sighs, “I don’t know why my parents seem to believe you’re a good influence on me.”

“You’re just too proud to admit that I am. Had it not been for me, you’d be stuck in front of your screen, reduced to living life like some hermit.”

“And it weren’t for me, you’d have been stuck sitting outside in the heat like some failed house burglar.”

Kuroo offers his hand between them, laughing loudly. “Then consider us even.”

Kenma takes his hand in a casual handshake.

“On that note, I didn’t notice how dark it’s gotten. I should probably head back and start making dinner or something. I can take the plates while you tidy up here.”

He stacks their bowls and utensils while Kenma switches off the console and collects the various games they had played. Kuroo pries the semi-open door with his foot, walking down to the stairs and taking a turn to the kitchen. He makes quick work of the dishes, washing and rinsing them out before putting them on the dish rack to dry. He wipes his hands on the towel by the fridge and heads back to Kenma’s room.

“Thanks for having me over.”

Kenma clicks the container lid shut. “Thanks for doing the dishes.”

“You probably wouldn’t have done it anyway.”

His friend scoffs, half-heartedly shouldering him past the door. Kenma sees him off at the front gate. His house remains dark from across the small road between the houses.

“Thanks again, Kenma. I’ll probably drag you out one of these days.”

“Give me a heads up then. I plan to spend my summer catching up on sleep.”

Kuroo crosses the road, reaching over to unlock his gate. “I would say the same but there’s always so much to do.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

“It probably is.” His phone vibrates in his pocket. He reaches to check it, almost too excitedly. He isn’t disappointed when he finds it’s from Tsukishima.

“Well, I’m going to go nap for a bit. See you around, Kuro.”

“Night, Kenma.”

They exchange small waves before heading into their respective houses. Kuroo opens the text just as he unlocks the front door.

_Are you busy?_

He switches on the lights and is greeted with the sight of his unoccupied living room.

_I’ve got all the time in the world._

* * *

_Hamlet:_

_Small? No, I could live in a walnut shell and feel like the king of the universe. The real problem is that I have bad dreams._

_Guildenstern:_

_Dreams are a sign of ambition, since ambition is nothing more than the shadow of a dream._

_Hamlet:_

_But a dream itself is just a shadow._

_(Act 2 Scene 2.)_

* * *

“Tsukishima!”

He’s slightly taken aback when Kuroo throws his arms around him. It doesn’t last very long and ends with Kuroo placing a hand on his shoulder to distance them.

“We talked a few days ago.”

Kuroo sniffs audibly, “I know, but it’s been so long since we last visited the mind library! I missed this place.”

“Can’t you come here without me?”

“It’s pretty boring without you. I haven’t had any big dreams lately either.” Kuroo says, taking his usual seat at the table and gesturing for Tsukishima to do the same. “Speaking of which, isn’t it still morning where you are?”

“I’ve been pretty jetlagged which is why I couldn’t reach out as much. Sorry about that.”

“No, no it’s alright. Don’t worry about it.” Kuroo flashes him a kind smile and it makes him notice he’s fidgeting with his fingers a little. Kuroo carries the small talk with ease, alleviating a bit of his awkwardness. “How’s England been so far?”

“Well, it’s a lot cooler to say the least. Went sightseeing here and there, but mostly just catching up with family and all that.”

“Not really your area then.” Tsukishima nods wordlessly. “So what’ve you been reading?”

“I got through most of _Hamlet_ on the plane.”

Kuroo chuckles, looking genuinely pleased with himself, “you know, that’s almost very English of you.”

“That’s fresh coming from someone who has a track record of reading Japanese classics.”

Kuroo reaches over for a book laying on the table. It’s a translated version of the book in question. “We’re both ends of the same spectrum, it seems. I’ve heard a little about it. _To be or not to be_ , right? That truly _is_ the question.”

“Well, to put some context to it, a lot of the _Lion King_ was based on _Hamlet_. Minus the obvious intricacies that aren’t exactly suited for children. Hamlet is about a Danish prince who is grieving over his father’s death and later seeks revenge when what he believes to be the ghost of his father reveals that the true nature of his mysterious death was murder. Hamlet spends the rest of the play actively planning his revenge on the perpetrator, who happens to be his uncle.”

“So instead of happy tunes, it’s speeches about whether he should live or die?”

Tsukishima can’t help the tug on his lip at the analogy. “Pretty much.”

“I’ve heard a lot of people calling him crazy, but I have reason to believe you think otherwise.”

Tsukishima relaxes into the back of the chair, his linked fingers coming apart as he speaks. “I guess most people would take Hamlet’s indecisiveness and amplify it alongside his metaphorical rhetoric. A lot of characters claim Hamlet is mad, but Hamlet himself dispels the claim: _I’m only crazy sometimes. At other times, I know what’s what._ For the most part, I think it’s all sort of an act, but like all forms of art, it still does convey a bit of Hamlet’s inner turmoil. As for his indecisiveness, I think it stems from wanting his uncle to suffer in the worst possible way, especially after what he had done to his beloved father. Hamlet isn’t a perfect character, but I think he was written to be exactly that - imperfect. His vision is clouded by his grief which leads him to doubt everyone around him. In short, I think he’s very human.”

“But in a sense, I guess you could still consider him crazy. It’s just like something Haida said in _Colourless._ No matter how quiet and conformist a person’s life seems, there’s always a time in the past where they reached an impasse. A time when they went a little crazy. In my eyes, I think we’re all a little insane.” Kuroo clasps his hands behind his head as Tsukishima scoffs jokingly.

“Perhaps that’s just applicable to you.”

“You can’t use that card on me, Tsukishima! Not when you manage to sympathize with characters like Hamlet and Kafka Tamura.” Kuroo interjects, waving the book around like a lawyer waving evidence to the jury. Tsukishima crosses his arms over his chest, huffing audibly. 

“What makes you think that?”

“From what you’ve just told me, I think you can see a lot of your own personality in Hamlet. You’re typically pretty critical of the imperfections of others, particularly when you see them as incompetent or irrational. But with Hamlet’s imperfections, you treat them reasonably. That isn’t saying that you believe your own flaws are above others, what I mean to say is that you find it easier to accept Hamlet’s flaws _because_ logically, you can understand them. With Kafka, it might just be my perception of you. But given the context clues, I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to say you saw yourself in Kafka Tamura at fifteen.”

His throat feels barren, devoid of any words he can possibly say in response. He doesn’t know if it’s solely because of Kuroo’s words or the mere fact that he knows that Kuroo knows there’s so much more beneath the surface, so much more Kuroo leaves unsaid. For better or for worse, Tsukishima does not know.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Kuroo starts, cutting through Tsukishima’s silence, “if it’s alright, that is. But what were your dreams like?”

“My dreams?”

“It’s a recurring thing in Kafka on the Shore, is it not? The responsibility that comes with dreams and imagination, as Oshima put it. What were your dreams like before you met me?” 

Tsukishima pries into the corners of his mind like he’s digging on dry sand, looking for a time capsule he forgot he had buried. A time capsule he didn’t think he’d look through. In the interest of time, he tries to find his words. “I’ve had them for as long as I can remember. They were standard. I saw glimpses of the future and found that they somehow managed to happen. But they weren’t anything significant or world changing so I let them be. I stopped having them for a while, until I met you of course.”

“And you don’t know how it all started?”

I stopped trying to figure it out years ago.”

“But one day, you just managed to stop having dreams.”

“They served me no purpose, seeing as I couldn’t change the outcome. Dreams in themselves are childish. Dreams, both in a literal and metaphorical sense, make you imagine and sometimes believe in the most unreasonable things. They’re just your mind’s way of keeping you occupied while unconscious.” He holds Kuroo’s gaze, laughing a little in an unknown sense of humour. “You should know that best. Weren’t your former dreams like that as well?”

Kuroo’s stare is opaque. “I wouldn’t know.”

The library fades away before he can utter another word.

* * *

_If you're in pitch blackness, all you can do is sit tight until your eyes get used to the dark._

* * *

_Hey Tetsu, sorry about the other day._

_My friends picked me up and I had to report to one of the branches here._

_Sorry about that :(_

_It’s alright! Nothing to worry about :)_

_Kenma invited me over so it’s all good._

_That’s great to hear!_

_Let’s hang out some other time, okay?_

_Owe you one Tetsu <3 _

_No worries, sis!_

_Hope to see you soon :D_

* * *

The message is left on read. Kuroo glances at the clock on the bedside table. It’s ten in the morning. Part of him wants to sleep in a little longer. It isn’t as though he’s got any plans anyway. 

He sits up anyway, deciding to head down and take breakfast by himself. He looks over to the house next door from the living room window, allowing himself to step outside and call out to the figure from the bedroom window.

“Kenma!”

It takes a few more shouts for the video game noises to come to a pause and for the window to open. “What?” Kenma calls back.

Kuroo doesn’t have any plans or anything better to do, but it isn’t as though he’s been the planning type in the first place.

“Let’s hang out today.”

Kenma takes a moment to contemplate the answer before drawing a heavy sigh. He doesn’t even need to reply for Kuroo to know he’s won.

“Fine, let me finish this round though.”

“Take your time.” Kuroo responds.

“Give me ten hours.”

Kuroo laughs loudly into the morning sky. “Will it really take you that long? You’ve lost your touch, my friend!”

“It’s too early for you to be yelling like a maniac.” Kenma deadpans.

“Don’t worry Kenma! There’s no need to be ashamed! I can wait.”

Kenma shakes his head, retreating from the opening to his game. Kuroo remains by the front door, letting his gaze drift further from the window until he isn’t entirely sure what he’s looking at anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kenma and Kuroo are in fact playing Call of Duty, though my knowledge is a little rusty since I haven't played in a while.
> 
> Thank you for reading everyone and I'll see you in the next chapter :)


	8. le mal du pays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's day everyone !
> 
> Today marks a year of another krtsk fic of mine, which was the first multi-chaptered fic I finished. Today is also the shop opening for the zine I've been working on. Our pre-orders last until March 20 2021 so I'd appreciate it if you could drop over to our accounts and shop to check it out (!!)
> 
> Haikyuu: Our Story Zine Shop  
> [Our Twitter](https://twitter.com/hqstoryzine?s=21)  
> [Our Instagram](https://instagram.com/hqstoryzine?igshid=125szgg9ygb21)
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> All proceeds go to charities in Southeast Asia so please check it out if you've got the time :)
> 
> Works mentioned:  
> The Catcher in the Rye by J.D Salinger  
> Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare  
> Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami  
> Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami  
> No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai 
> 
> Excerpts from : Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage, Kafka on the Shore and No Longer Human
> 
> Happy reading :) we're about half way through the story please bear with me a little longer haha

_ “‘Le mal du pays.’ It’s French. Usually translated as ‘homesickness,’ or ‘melancholy.’ If you put a finer point on it, it’s more like ‘a groundless sadness called forth in a person’s heart by a pastoral landscape.’ It’s a hard expression to translate accurately.” _

* * *

There are times his mind goes quiet.

It’s the kind of silence devoid of echoes, one that takes up so much space while being empty at the same time. After some time, he learns that this silence is loud, deafening - it was something you could hear. It was restless, persistent, and it had the tendency to overstay its welcome. He has yet to figure out where it came from. Tsukishima has yet to figure out a way around it. 

It’s numbing in the least comforting way possible. It’s like being on anesthesia but still being conscious enough to see what’s going on in front of you. You won’t know what’s being taken from you, but when you wake up, you’re almost certain there is something missing.

Tsukishima needs his mind. His rationality, his logic, his intelligence. His mind works at the core of who he is and is the one thing he can trust above all else. It’s how he takes in the world, it’s how he makes decisions. It’s where he can sit with himself and figure out the ten next moves, the fifteen next steps, the twenty right turns he needs to take. His mind is his refuge and his very being. Without it, he is simply reduced to an empty shell of a human. More than he already is, he thinks.

But the silence remains, and so he must live through it.

He has to squint in the light of the London summertime. He has to keep himself upright and move one foot in front of the other. He has to listen to words and not understand them. Tsukishima feels sick despite being in perfectly good health. He feels helpless stumbling aimlessly like a phantom. He needs to get a grip; he needs to  _ think. _

“Kei.”

Tsukishima glances up, unsure of who called out to him. How could such faint light be so blinding? Perhaps he should’ve brought shades with him. 

“There’re a couple of bookstores nearby, do you want to stay in one while we wander around?”

He forces a quick “sure” from his throat. The word itself slips through the cracks in the pavement, sinking somewhere below ground. It sinks to a place Tsukishima cannot hear.

His father taps him on the shoulder, “We’ll meet you here in half an hour.”

All Tsukishima can do is nod.

His family leaves him and disperses into the crowd. Tsukishima faintly registers himself walking. His unsteady gaze alternates between the cobblestone and the shop displays. Internally, he wages a war with himself. He tries to surround the quiet, he tries to find  _ something  _ to cling onto. He searches for an anchor to keep himself still against the tide.

He doesn’t know when he catches his own reflection in the glass. Tsukishima realizes he’s standing outside a bookstore, and to an average passerby, he would seem to be browsing the stacks on display. He looks at his eyes through the glass and finds a gaze that isn’t his own. It’s almost ironic when he finds the image of Kuroo’s opaque stare from transparent glass.

_ “I wouldn’t know.” _

In that brief moment, Tsukishima wonders if he had truly just imagined it.

It was as though the glass wall had fallen and shattered, leaving Tsukishima in full view of what lay beyond the rose coloured lenses he did not know he had on. It was like the lingering weight in Kuroo’s smile had dropped, revealing something bare and raw. A consciousness Tsukishima had never once seen or even thought existed. In his mind, he thinks Kuroo remains unaware of it.

It occurs to him that he has never once seen through the glass of Kuroo’s eyes. He wonders if there was ever any glass to begin with.

The world feels slightly off its axis at the notion. He’s seen Kuroo in his dreams these days. He’s seen him laughing, smiling. He’s seen him bright with mischief, running around and dragging the boy he assumes to be Kenma around with him. He’s listened to Kuroo speak in vibrant conversations, painting the atmosphere in the brightest hues like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He wonders how such imagery could flip into monochrome within the blink of an eye. How words can dissipate into thin air.

A lone, grey figure, stands splitting apart in the middle of a brightly saturated background.

Tsukishima wades through the fog over his eyes and reads the three words that spell  _ No Longer Human.  _

He hears the little bell chime when he pushes past the door.

* * *

_ Maybe I am just an empty, futile person, he thought. But it was precisely because there was nothing inside of me that these people could find, if even for a short time, a place where they belonged. Like a nocturnal bird seeks a safe place to rest during the day in a vacant attic. The birds like that empty, dim, silent place. If that were true, then maybe he should be happy he was hollow. _

* * *

He meets Kuroo again on the weekend before summer break ends, just a few days after he arrives back in Japan.

Kuroo doesn’t hug him this time. Tsukishima doesn’t know why he bothers to take note of that detail.

_ “Ah, excuse me,” _ Kuroo begins, his accent heavily weighing down on his words. “ _ Have you seen my friend?” _

“Please never speak again.” Tsukishima responds instantaneously, wincing internally when he realizes it might have been a little too direct. Even if it is, Kuroo pays it no heed, opting to laugh aloud instead.

“Oya? It seems you're getting quite an accent yourself, Tsukishima. Maybe I just never noticed it before.”

“I’ve never had one to begin with.”

They swipe their cards and walk along the lines of people until they make it out of the station. Kuroo takes him to a cafe close to the station. It’s not as packed as he expects. They managed to find comfortable cushioned seats by a wall, well away from the distant but dull chatter of fellow patrons. Kuroo asks him about England and the little things. He learns about Kuroo’s summer with his bike riding with his father, gaming with Kenma, and playing volleyball with someone named Bokuto. 

He (bashfully) hands Kuroo the contents from his messenger bag. An English copy of  _ Romeo and Juliet  _ and a -

“A triceratops?” Kuroo guesses correctly. 

Tsukishima has to hide his smile on the rim of his mug. “You look just like one.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr Archeologist.” Kuroo says triumphantly, enclosing the keychain in his palm like it was some ancient token. He places the chain ring around his finger, securing it in his hold. “Well, you aren’t the only one with gifts.”

He hands Tsukishima what he assumes to be a book wrapped in package paper.

“Now I know what you’re thinking. I may have gotten you a book last time, but this one really is for your birthday. It’s coming up next month, right? I would have given it to you then, but I didn’t know the exact date. Plus our schedules could be pretty packed.”

Tsukishima swallows the lump in his throat with some caffeine. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to.”

“Don’t mention it. I won’t say any more because you aren’t really the kind for surprises, but you have to wait until your birthday to open it.”

He taps his fingers over the packaging as though it would somehow telepathically tell him its contents. If only he had control over his own dreams, he thought faintly. But then again, he would’ve given them up a long time ago. “Alright then.”

Kuroo raises his right hand toward him. “Promise.”

“What are you, five?” 

“The pinky swear is a sacred oath, Tsukishima. The strongest of bonds are secured by it.”

It’s ridiculous, really. Kuroo, the spitting of an alternative college student, raising his pinky at him accusingly. He’s smiling too widely for this, expression too mischievous and eyes too bright.

He sighs and offers his own pinky. Kuroo interlaces their fingers firmly, making a show of shaking it in an effort to prove its stability.

“Okay that’s enough.” He pulls free and Kuroo is still chuckling.

He can still see nothing past his eyes, but he isn’t entirely sure what he’d want to find.

“ _ No Fear Shakespeare.”  _ Kuroo reads aloud, examining the book in his hand. He flips it open, skimming through the first few pages.

“It’s a translated version. I figured it’d be easier for you to understand the simplified English version.”

“Well, it’ll probably take some time before I can read through the whole thing. But thank you. I’m also beginning to wonder if there are any motives behind giving me this particular book.” Kuroo rests his hand on his palm stirring the straw of his ice chocolate frappe. Tsukishima coughs a laugh.

He digs a fork into his strawberry shortcake. “Seeing that you seem to enjoy  _ Norwegian Wood, _ I thought it would only be fitting.”

“Hey, I said it made a few interesting points. It isn’t my favourite book. Mutually, it isn’t our cup of tea. Or coffee, in that case.” Kuroo takes a sip of his drink, squinting at the words from his open book. “Both these romances have some element of tragedy to them. I guess most acclaimed romances can never escape it.”

“ _ Man doesn’t choose fate. Fate chooses man. That’s the basic overview of Greek Drama. And the sense of tragedy— according to Aristotle— comes, ironically enough, not from the protagonist’s weak points but from his good qualities.” _ Tsukishima recites, “ _ People are drawn deeper into tragedy not by their defects but by their  _ virtues.”

“Kafka on the Shore.” Kuroo says. The look in his eyes remains indecipherable, but his features are drawn to express that of slight awe. “Do you always do that? Remember quotes word for word?”

“It’s just something I can’t help,” he confesses honestly. “It’s an unconscious thing for the most part.”

Kuroo taps the side of his own head. “Must help to have a mind palace, just like a real life Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s not nearly as useful or articulate.”

“But to the question at hand,” Kuroo twirls the little keychain around. It comes to a stop once he reaches the point. “Do you think Aristotle’s observation can be applied to these romantic tragedies?”

Tsukishima takes a small bite from the cake, chewing it slowly as he thinks. “In a sense, you could say so. The protagonists are driven by their love for one another, after all. Romeo takes his own life at the prospect of living on without Juliet and she likewise does the same. As for Watanabe - or well, Naoko in this case. I guess it would narrow down to the loss of Kizuki.”

“The bottom line is, one’s view of love as an inherent virtue could lead to a sense of tragedy.”

He splits the cake, offering the other half to Kuroo, who takes it with a small thank you. “The smallest of things can lead to one’s downfall. All it takes is enough investment.”

Kuroo motions for him to go on, so he does.

“Most people can accept their defects. You could argue that a sense of tragedy could come from not being able to make up for it, but that in itself is a virtue. Trying to eradicate a sense of imperfection is a semi-perfectionistic virtue. Defects can trigger sadness, sure. But true tragedy is sparked by something deeper. Your virtues are something you curate. Something you invest and take the time to consider and ponder on. It’s something you build over the years and often pride yourself on. For most people, perhaps they pride in them excessively. The point is, it’d hurt a lot more to watch what you built fall apart. Though in my opinion, falling into that sense of tragedy is a partial choice.”

It’s only then that he notices that Kuroo’s eyes have been on him the whole time. Tsukishima isn’t much for eye contact when he speaks, often gazing at a space to let his words run smoothly. It’d be too awkward to fix his gaze on a prime object, and maintaining eye contact in a two person conversation is pretty distracting. Kuroo’s eyes never seem to have left him, but they aren’t unwelcoming. He assumes that’s just Kuroo’s talent of listening to people.

“A partial choice?”

Tsukishima sets his fork down. “Pain is inevitable but suffering is a choice.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it.”

“Pain is something we can never avoid as humans, but for the most part, we can control how we deal with it. We can control most of the aftermath and we can control the measures we take to avoid it. True, pain may be essential for certain life lessons, but - in my eyes - I’d do what it takes to avoid it as much as possible. If I had the choice to avoid it, I would. There’s no point in wasting energy on it. I find that a lot of people charge into it head on, like it’s bound to give them resiliency. I guess it’s the luxury of ignorance.”

“In short, you believe in tragedy when it is, and only is, inevitable.”

_ “The weak fear happiness itself. They harm themselves on cotton wool. Sometimes they are wounded even by happiness.” _

Kuroo raises a brow. “A blunt summary from  _ No Longer Human.” _

“I stumbled upon it in one of the stores,” Tsukishima says simply, interlacing his fingers. “How people deal with things is subjective and something I probably have no say in, but you can’t deny there are a number who spend their days consciously clinging to suffering. I wouldn’t go as far as to call them weak just as Yozo does, but it’s a very real picture of the world. Naivety makes people blind to the consequences of their actions.” 

“That’s quite true.”

“Sorry, the conversation suddenly became very philosophical.”

Kuroo chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans into the back of his seat. “If you haven’t noticed, most of our conversations already are. There’s nothing to be sorry about. I like hearing your ideas and interpretations on things. It’s part of what makes life and literature interesting.”

He reaches for his mug. “In a sense.”

“But your point stands. People are responsible for how much they invest in certain things. Overindulgence can push them over the edge. I also think that tunnel vision is another factor. I’d like to think personal and ideological tragedies are the most destructive. Both for other people and for the individual. You can see it in the case of Ms Saeki’s highschool sweetheart and for Yozo. Though I find Yozo’s to be the most terrifying.”

“Because no matter where you turn, you can’t help but agree with him.”

Kuroo lets out a breath. “The epitome of an inevitable tragedy.”

He finishes the rest of his coffee, piling the cup onto his empty plate. 

“It’s a bit sad, in retrospect,” Kuroo laughs. “How we’ve both managed to amplify the saddest parts of these relatively romantic books.”

“It’s just analysis after all.”

“What do you think of these books then? Beyond their inherent tragedies.”

Tsukishima shrugs, “I haven’t really read Romeo and Juliet. Norwegian Wood, for the most part, is interesting. But overall, I’m not a very romance oriented person. Perhaps I’m just cynical.”

“An intelligent romantic, then.” Kuroo supplies, twirling his fork around like a mini baton.

“It’s not a priority. Besides, I’m probably too young to be thinking about it.”

“On the contrary, most people tend to aim for it at around this time. Teenage love and all that. It’s perfectly natural to be inclined to it.”

Tsukishima feels a smirk tug on the corner of his lip. “Oh how the mighty have fallen.”

“What can I say. I’ve had a few girlfriends but it was never anything serious. Our previous line of conversation suddenly makes me feel quite conscious of that fact. But then again, I was young and didn’t have a proper grasp of my own responsibilities. I guess it has something to do with the influence of finding the  _ ‘perfect love’  _ as people say.” Kuroo points to the empty plate. “Though Midori denies it, her version of love is pretty idealized as well, don’t you think? The perfect selfishness embodied in running to get strawberry shortcake for someone on command, only to throw it out when they don’t want it anymore.”

_ “It is curious, but the cathedrals of melancholy are not necessarily demolished if one can replace the vulgar ‘What a messy business it is to be fallen for’ by the more literary ‘What uneasiness lies in being loved.’”  _ It’s another quote from  _ No Longer Human.  _ It’s the kind of direct statement a book of such a nature could produce. Tsukishima has had his own fair share of school life confessions, though he never really did understand them. He barely knew any of the girls who called him aside, let alone sympathize with what they told him. He thinks all middle school confessions follow an unspoken format with a dictionary figure to pick and choose adjectives from. He finds that once something is universally seen as sacred, people have the tendency to water it down until it is purely indistinguishable. So love continues to remain risky business to him. Not that he minds, anyway. He’s got better things to do.

“Now that I think about it - I wonder how people manage to describe love as something like fireworks. Like that one earth shattering moment where they just knew. I’m cringing just saying these things.” Kuroo makes a show of visibly shivering, earning a quiet laugh from Tsukishima. “Perhaps we too have been fooled, my fellow philosopher.”

“How so?”

Across the table, Kuroo drapes himself over his seat, swooning as though in a Shakespearean play. “Perhaps love as merely something trivial - perhaps our concept of it was just a lie.”

“Pull yourself together,” Tsukishima says, though his voice doesn’t sound as firm as he’d like. “People don’t need to know how much you’ve lost your mind.”

“Ah! It is madness, and yet, there is method in it!” Kuroo says, sitting upright in a flash. He seems to have humoured himself enough. “My point is - perhaps love is nothing special. We’ve spent a bit of time arguing on the grounds of idealized love, but what if the basis of it was just as idealized. Perhaps what we see as shallow is merely what love was in its original state. Or perhaps I’m just growing cynical as well.”

“Could be.” Tsukishima replies. “I do get what you’re saying. People do tend to hold love at a higher regard which leads to disappointment when they realize - at least I assume it is - quite ordinary. Most go in with burning passion only to burn out in the end. In the Japanese sense, I think love is either portrayed as naive or in silence. But who’s to say what love really is, anyway. Definitions are subjective from person to person. Besides, there’s still more to living than just searching for love. It’s not a very stable life goal.”

“Well put, dear junior.” Kuroo switches his phone on, checking the time. “Time flies fast. We should probably head back to the station. Wouldn’t want to mess up your preparations for school.”

He and Kuroo tidy their table, segregating their utensils in their designated area. They fall into step on the sidewalk.

“What are you guys discussing in literature?” Kuroo asks him suddenly. They’re standing in front of a crosswalk, waiting alongside the crowd.

“I’m not entirely sure. We’ll probably need to translate a few passages.”

The light turns green, they cross over the white lines. “I see. Say, Tsukishima.”

He glances over at Kuroo.

“Have you ever heard the story of the fireflies?”

He hasn’t.

“Well, it's pretty interesting. According to the story, the king of the fireflies Hi-o reigned in his kingdom of water lilies in the moats of the Fukui Castle in Echizen.There, he stayed with his only daughter Princess Hotaru. She remained within the petals of the flower until she was of age, with her light a mellow gold. It was then when her father allowed her to accompany him on his journeys, as well as to find suitors to select who she would want to marry.”

“So she flew out, and her light managed to attract a crowd of night-flying insects. She didn’t care for their attention. She spoke to them without any sense of encouragement. So she went to her mother, the Queen, and told her that she had found no interest in any of the suitors. She said that if any of them were willing to profess their love to her in court, she would lay on them an impossible task. If they were wise they would not perform it. And if they were willing to throw their lives away for her, she would want nothing to do with them. However, if one of them does manage to succeed, then they may have her as their bride.”

“Herculean tasks that require extensive wit seems to be a recurring theme in courting royalty,” Tsukishima chimes in. “Within reason, of course. They’re always pretty interesting to think about. Very clever too.”

“That’s very true. It’s a lot more reliable than catching feelings under societal pressure and royal obligation,” Kuroo replies. “In this case, a line of suitors flock to the water lilies, all promising their life, their love, their property and the world to her. She answers them humbly with a single challenge: bring me back fire, and I shall be your bride.”

“So the bugs scattered, on their own quests for fire. Many were scorched when they dove straight for the flames, some killed when trying to steal the flashes of light from the eyes of cats and the scales of fish.”

“The next morning was one of many funerals and great loss - but it was then that Himaro, the prince of the fireflies in the Northern Kingdom, first heard of the shimmering princess. He arranged with King Hi-o, with his newfound resolve to marry her to which Hotaru’s father agreed, on the condition that he complete the task she had given to her suitors.”

“So Prince Himaro made his way to her kingdom, bringing alongside him his battalion. But even their light could not outshine that of Princess Hotaru’s. Nevertheless, the challenge was met and the two were wed soon after. Generations passed and the challenge remained as the mandatory quest in winning a firefly monarch’s love. It’s the reason why insects tend to hover around the flames in a futile effort to bring back fire. It’s also the reason why people try to catch fireflies in the festival in June, hoping that their own lovers would go through those lengths for them as well.”

Kuroo comes to the end of the tale, and Tsukishima can’t help but grow intrigued. Kuroo has always been very enthusiastic about explaining things. Listening to him makes you want to learn more about it and it makes it a lot easier to understand (though Kuroo simplifies it quite well already). Talking to Kuroo has a similar effect because he seems to never run out of things to say. Kuroo is an interesting person who makes everything around him interesting. That includes people too. He’s reminded of that when Kuroo meets his gaze expectantly, eager to hear what he has to say.

Tsukishima coughs the air caught in his throat unnoticeably. “Do people want mass suicides from their suitors as well?”

Kuroo laughs brightly. “The moral does seem to give off that impression, doesn’t it? I assume people want someone who would go through a lot of them, but that’s almost counterintuitive from Princess Hotaru’s intentions. I like to think they’d want someone like Prince Himaro, who was wise enough to figure it out. Though it does raise an issue of homogeneity in species.”

“It does raise the issue of finding someone too much like you, but that isn’t inherently bad. We’re speaking in a realistic context as well, so that’s close to impossible. But I think another way to look at it is to have someone who genuinely already has what you’re looking for. Not that you’re to expect much in the first place. The other suitors killed themselves desperately trying to fulfill something they don’t have, so in a sense, I guess the moral would be to look for someone who doesn’t have to waste their life in such a futile effort.”

“In other words,” Kuroo says as he usually does. He always does seem to interpret Tsukishima’s words well. “The essence would be to find someone who is true to themselves.”

Tsukishima reaches to grab his shorthairs, planting his hand on the back of his head almost sheepishly. “In a sense.”

He can’t help the flush that creeps up on him when Kuroo’s smile widens. “Truly the intelligent romantic, Tsukishima.”

They enter the station. “It’s nothing like that.”

Kuroo helps him figure out the route going back once more. The map is a strange system that somehow works. It’s an orderly mess. A methodical madness Japan managed to come up with. He writes it down on his hand just in case. He doesn’t need it for now, considering that Kuroo is there to guide him. He’s probably going to need to figure it out on his own one day.

“Thanks for coming over again.”

“It’s no problem. Thanks for picking me up.” Tsukishima thinks Kuroo will never stop prompting these lines no matter how many times they do this. His train arrives, he steps on board, standing by a handle directly across where Kuroo stands on the platform.

He blinks twice when he finds Kuroo stepping into the train. “Kuroo?”

“I almost forgot!” Kuroo says in peals of amusement, handing Tsukishima two novels from his bag. “Thanks for letting me borrow them.”

They’re talking quietly, but he can’t help but feel acutely aware of the passengers around them. Before he can say anything, Kuroo is backstepping out the door, just before the automated voice announces them closing.

He shakes his head. “You’re insane.”

“Talk to you later, Tsukishima!”

_ “The doors are now closing.” _

Kuroo chases after the train a little, to which Tsukishima wishes he could telepathically tell him to stop before he trips or something. He settles on a meek wave with embarrassed laughter almost breaking from him. He looks down at the books in his hands, both unharmed and in the same condition as he had leant them to Kuroo.

He’s about to put them in his bag when he notices something.

There are paper tabs sticking out from the pages.

* * *

_ One heart is not connected to another through harmony alone. They are, instead, linked deeply through their wounds. Pain linked to pain, fragility to fragility. There is no silence without a cry of grief, no forgiveness without bloodshed, no acceptance without a passage through acute loss. That is what lies at the root of true harmony. _

(248.)

* * *

_ Kokoro  _ begins with the narrator’s recountment of the man he knew as  _ Sensei.  _ Kuroo isn’t entirely sure what he expects when he begins reading. The writing gives him a sense of an earlier time, back to when the world was simpler. He finds that thoughts, experiences, and feelings do not share that sentiment, however.

It’s a very long book and one he knows will not follow the typical archetype of modern day stories. That’s something he’s noticed over the years. The world seems to present stories as clear cut montages, with even transitions between beginning, middle, and end. Life often does not follow such a well anticipated formula. Goals change alongside circumstance, people move along the tide. He is in no way, chastising stories. They are creative visions after all. He just finds that Japanese stories tend to encapsulate a very realistic series of events.

He can  _ see  _ the world through the Narrator’s eyes. He can see Japan in the back in the early 1900s. He can see into the life of this nameless character, divulging on his life and the life of the mentor figure he admires.

Kuroo is a few chapters in when he is reminded of the reason why  _ Kokoro  _ is named the way it is. Why the book is titled to mean  _ heart.  _

_ “Have you ever been in love?” I had not, I replied. _

_ “Wouldn’t you like to be?” _

_ I did not answer. _

_ “I don’t imagine that you wouldn’t.” _

_ “No.” _

_ “You were mocking that couple just now. I think that mockery contained unhappiness at wanting love but not finding it.” _

_ “Is that how it sounded to you?” _

_ “It is. A man who knows the satisfactions of love would speak of them more warmly. But, you know… love is also a sin. Do you understand?” _

_ Astounded, I made no reply. _

For as far as he knows, he has never been in love.

He’s had a few girlfriends back in highschool. They were all nice, each with their own personality and image. But if someone were to ask him about what drew him to them, he wouldn’t be able to say. Kuroo knew that back then which led to him breaking it off in a civilized manner. After sitting down and thinking it over, Kuroo could not bring himself to further the relationship. He doesn’t want to say they grew mundane, but he does think they were always just - stagnant. It didn’t help that he had never been the one to instigate it either. 

They hung out, walked home, maybe saw a movie or two but nothing really happened. It felt more like a friendship than anything else. Looking back, perhaps there was an element of attraction. Perhaps there was an appeal in the prospect of having a label with someone. Or perhaps he was just conceited with an idealized view of romance. 

Kuroo sets the book down, staring past the window of his dorm. It’s been a few weeks since Tsukishima’s last visit and their conversation remains fresh in his mind. Part of it has to do with Tsukishima’s likeness to Sensei (it’s strange how he can find parts of Tsukishima in the books he reads). He isn’t sure if it’s his inherently quiet demeanor, or his strange “aged-wisdom” aura. Tsukishima is still much more like Kafka, but Kuroo can’t help but picture Sensei as an older, mellowed down Tsukishima. 

He isn’t entirely sure why he formed that association, but it sticks nonetheless. He wonders if he can find some sort of answer to their rhetoric from weeks before. He wonders what Kokoro will teach him about the heart and about love. Perhaps then he’d be able to share his findings with Tsukishima.

The calendar by his desk tells him September is steadily settling in. He counts down the days before the twenty-seventh.

* * *

_ There are countless things in the world for which affection is not enough. Life is long, and sometimes cruel. Sometimes victims are needed. Someone has to take on that role. And human bodies are fragile, easily damaged. Cut them, and they bleed. _

(297.)

* * *

He ponders on the story of the fireflies, assuming that Kuroo probably saw it in his dream. He does have a tendency to remember weird details. Tsukishima stops himself from reading in his literature classes, deducing that it would be something discussed in one of his lectures.

And (as always) he was right.

His teacher didn’t go into much depth about it, skimming over it off-handedly as though burying it in the rest of the information his class is made to copy down. Tsukishima quickly deciphers this as a tactic used to hide relevant topics for upcoming quizzes and or exams. It won’t be a major detail, but it’ll probably cost a handful of points.

“You aren’t reading in class,” Yamaguchi tells him at lunch, offering an onigiri to him. He declines.

“Didn’t really feel like it.” And it’s half true. It’s taking awhile for him to continue  _ The Catcher In The Rye.  _

“You sure you didn’t get a low mark or something?”

Tsukishima shuts his lunch box. “Positive.”

“D’you have any plans for Friday?”

“No, not really. You can come over if you want. I’m telling you ahead because Akiteru would probably drag you in regardless.” Yamaguchi laughs at that.

“I’ll ask Ennoshita if I can leave practice earlier, then. It might take a bit of convincing though, with the playoffs coming up next month.”

Tsukishima hums in response. He takes the book from the space beneath his desk, knowing full well this is where the conversation. Yamaguchi rambles to himself before excusing himself, saying something about going over to talk to Yachi in the class next door.

He places his headphones on and opens to the book to the page where he last left off.

Holden Caulfield is just as old as he is. It’s another  _ Kafka on the Shore _ moment, but not quite. Murakami did translate this book, however, so it may have served some basis for Kafka’s character. Both Holden and Kafka are on a journey away from where they had started. For Kafka, it was his home and for Holden, it was his pretentious all boys school.

Holden is a lot more brash in his thoughts. He has the tendency to either repeat his words or contradict them. He’s a bit like a slightly grown up and jaded version of  _ Peter Pan.  _ It’s a lot more raw in English given the setting and makes it feel all too authentic. Tsukishima thinks Holden is on the verge of some level of collapse with his almost erratic speech patterns. His cynicism is amplified, but his clarity drives a few points a little too close to home.

Tsukishima isn’t entirely attached to the story. Perhaps Holden’s character is just too far away from him. He’s like a foundation built on sand, he’s the unsteadiness Tsukishima has trained himself to avoid. Tsukishima does get a few laughs from his directness though. His contradictions do make some semblance of sense. He’s a bit like a younger, modern version of Hamlet, if he thinks about it.

He stops reading just as Holden meets up with Sally again. The bell cuts through the music in his ears, and he tidies his desk just as Yamaguchi comes running into the classroom. His friend shoots him a thumbs up from his seat. It either means he’s off for Friday, or he actually managed to strike up an entire conversation with Yachi. Either way, Tsukishima offers him a nod of acknowledgement before staring out the window.

There are cumulonimbus clouds that day.

* * *

_ “Things outside you are projections of what’s inside you, and what’s inside of you is a projection of what’s outside. So when you step into the labyrinth outside you, at the same time, you’re stepping into the labyrinth inside. Most definitely risky business.” _

(352.)

* * *

_ Happy Birthday, Tsukishima! _

Tsukishima squints as his phone screen, suppressing a yawn. He taps the message.

_ Sent by Kuroo at 11:59 pm _

He breathes a laugh.

_ You’re a little too early. _

He hits send.

* * *

“How’ve your dreams been lately?”

They’re alone on the street, walking back to Tsukishima’s house. The sky is a little more orange now.

“Irrelevant and nonexistent,” he says evenly. More half truths.

“Do you - “ he’s glad he’s looking ahead, leaving only his peripherals to gauge the look on Yamaguchi’s face. For once, he doesn’t need to overlook whatever he deciphers from his expression. “Do you think you can dream about the playoffs?”

Tsukishima halts midstep.

“Not that you need to! I was just curious…”

“Yamaguchi.”

He’s sure it doesn’t sound biting and he doesn’t intend it to be. There isn’t a reason to fuss over it. If anything, it’s a resigned calm. A calculated and certain answer.

“My dreams are unreliable and irrational. I rarely dream anymore and dreaming about an event like that wouldn’t make a difference.” He sighs, “don’t worry about it too much. It’s always a fifty-fifty chance. Everyone has to lose sometimes, but if you play well enough you might just hold out for a little longer. Don’t rely on such abstract things.”

“I see,” Yamaguchi replies, sounding like the tightness in his chest finally dissipated. “Thanks Tsukki. Sorry for asking.”

They keep walking.

* * *

_ “Tsukishima! Hello! Happy Birthday! Have you opened your present yet?” _

“You’re a nosy one, aren’t you.” Tsukishima says, putting his phone on speaker when he flops onto his bed. He remains still for a moment, answering Kuroo’s small talk. He tells him about Akiteru’s failed surprise plan and the cake his mother made. He can imagine Kuroo nodding along from four hours away. He manages to sit up and grab the wrapped book on his bedside table.

Kuroo drum rolls as he undoes the packaging, the paper crinkles loud enough over the phone. He tucks the packaging away and holds the book in his hands. It’s a copy of  _ Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman  _ by Murakami. 

_ “It isn’t the newest Murakami book, but I figured you hadn’t read it yet.” _

He stammers a quiet thank you. Kuroo’s laugh feels a little pixelated over the phone, but it manages to retain its warmth.

_ “It’s a collection of Murakami’s short stories instead of a fully fleshed out novel. It also includes the short story that eventually became Norwegian Wood in the later chapters. And, believe it or not, it’s called - “ _

“Firefly.” Tsukishima says, locating the chapter in the table of contents. He can practically  _ feel  _ Kuroo’s smile from miles away. He isn’t sure whether he’s meant to laugh or sigh. It’s all too corny. “You’re terrible with surprises, you know that?”

_ “You didn’t suspect a thing. That’s a win in my book.”  _

“You’re very nosy.”

_ “You’ve said that twice now. I’d prefer to call it something along the lines of ‘divine intervention.’” _

Tsukishima scoffs, “You went through the effort of researching an old tale that was barely given a minute in a discussion - which you still attentively listened to - just to throw crude hints for a chapter in a book.”

_ “Don’t degrade my efforts, Tsukishima! It’s called being creative. Even you can admit it’s pretty good.”  _

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

_ “Actually, I’m quite anxious to know if you like it or not.” _

Kuroo’s tone betrays his intentions, but they've spoken long enough for Tsukishima to know it doesn’t make the statement any less true. He isn’t like Akiteru or Yamaguchi who both need constant enthusiastic reassurances to appease them. Kuroo states his intentions honestly, almost bluntly, and only needs a simple, concise answer. By now, they both understand these to be transactions of honesty (though it isn’t as though they have much to hide). Kuroo could probably pick up his own cues over the phone, just as Tsukishima has already done with him. It’s an unspoken mutual understanding. It’s a bit like a casual game of chess. All it takes is one move to get the point across.

So Tsukishima takes it.

“I’ve been meaning to get a copy of it myself,” he says, truthfully. “Thank you again, Kuroo. You really didn’t have to.”

The smile he imagines is quiet and soft.  _ “Don’t mention it.” _

They chat a bit more about the little things. It probably draws on a little more than it should. After a while, they fall into a strange rhythm - a comfortable sort of silence. Tsukishima picks up his own book just as Kuroo does on the other end of the line, and they read. In hindsight, it’s unexplainable, maybe a bit  _ too  _ strange. But to him, it’s a little bit like the many nights spent in the mind library, sitting in silence and in each other’s company.

Pages turn, the air conditioning hums and the occasional reaction arises. One of them usually ends up stopping entirely to offer insight or a reaction to what they had just read. There’s a small recess to talk about it a little more before going back to the motions. 

This time, Tsukishima is the one to prompt the discussion. He opts to read a few more of the stories before reading  _ Firefly.  _ The story he’s on is called  _ Birthday Girl.  _ It’s about a woman who works at a restaurant and takes on a task usually delegated to one of her superiors. She’s made to bring dinner up to the manager in a very particular routine, but strangely enough, he invites her inside and asks her to wish for a single thing; to wish for anything in the world and it would be granted.

“What would you have wished for?” He asks, looking over at his phone as though Kuroo was right there, offering him a quick side glance as he marks the page of his book. “The woman in  _ Birthday Girl  _ never explicitly said what she wished for, though I’m assuming she chose to not wish for anything after what she told her friend.”

_ “That’s a tough one, though I think I should be asking you that question. It is your birthday, after all.” _

“You’re always the one asking the questions. I’m starting to think you’re having trouble forming your own opinions.”

There’s an exhale.  _ “Well, it is my job as your senior to set the example.” _

“Your track record isn’t looking too good.”

_ “ _ Anyway -  _ I would probably wish for wisdom or something. To be able to discern my actions better maybe.”  _ Kuroo drums his fingers on the table top.  _ “The funny thing is, she and I share the same birthday.” _

“November seventeenth?”

_ “That’s right.” _

“I’ve got a deadline now, at least.”

_ “Don’t worry about it, Tsukishima. It doesn’t have to be transactional or anything. You shouldn’t be spending money on me.” _

Tsukishima scoffs, “you brought this upon yourself.”

_ “Then I’ll look forward to it.”  _ He adds.  _ “And what about you then. If I were some magical person, what would you wish for?” _

He looks up at his ceiling. It isn’t as though he finds any answer in the blankness. “I wouldn’t really know either. Maybe answers to a question, or good health for those around me.”

_ “That’s very thoughtful of you.”  _ Kuroo comments fondly.  _ “I was just thinking about it. Wouldn’t you want to ask about where these dreams came from? Is that the answer to the question you were looking for?” _

“Maybe.” 

_ “‘No matter what they wish for, no matter how far they go, people can never be anything but themselves.’ That’s what she said, wasn’t it? Who knows. Maybe these dreams stem from something inside of us. I don’t think I have a metaphor to describe it.” _

“Perhaps.” He never realized how strikingly empty his ceiling was. There aren’t even any cracks or lumps of paint. 

_ “You’re probably getting a little tired. It’s pretty late anyway. I’ve gotta head somewhere tomorrow too. You should get to bed.” _

His clock reads a quarter past midnight. He’s been seventeen for a whole day now. “Thank you, Kuroo. I’m sorry if I sound a bit dry.”

_ “Don’t worry about it, it happens. Happy Birthday again, Tsukishima. Have a good night - or well, morning.” _

“Good morning, Kuroo.”

He isn’t sure who ends the call first.

* * *

_ “Whenever I was asked what I wanted my first impulse was to answer "Nothing." The thought went through my mind that it didn't make any difference, that nothing was going to make me happy.” _

* * *

He skips over to where Firefly is after some time. He finally feels the fatigue kicking in at around one in the morning.

Once he finishes, he sits alone in the dark, staring out the window with the book on his lap. He traces the stars in the sky aimlessly in his mind.

He takes his glasses off, placing it alongside the book on the table next to him. His head finds the pillow and the world remains blurry around him. He blinks, once, twice and maybe a little more before he loses count. He isn’tis’t entirely sure when he finally manages to drift off to sleep, but one thing remains certain and clear in his mind.

Somewhere in the early morning, Tsukishima dreams of fireflies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will apologize for the next four or so chapters in advance while I still can
> 
> You can read the story Kuroo is referring to here: [The Firefly’s Lovers](https://japanpowered.com/folklore-and-urban-legends/the-fireflys-lovers#:~:text=This%20story%20was%20collected%20around,the%20oral%20stories%20they%20encountered.)


	9. that dreamers often lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the prolonged wait. Been pretty caught up in a lot of things. But here it is and in the words of John Mulaney: "and it gets worse." (I apologized in advance but this chapter is still pretty mild from my standpoint).
> 
> Thank you for 2k hits everyone ! It's a first and I'm somewhat glad this fic hit that milestone haha
> 
> books mentioned:  
> Kokoro by Natsume Soseki; and  
> Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman by Haruki Murakami
> 
> excerpts from: Kafka on the Shore, Norwegian Wood, Hamlet, and Romeo and Juliet.

_ "All kinds of things are happening to me," I begin. "Some I chose, some I didn't. I don't know how to tell one from the other anymore. What I mean is, it feels like everything's been decided in advance— that I'm following a path somebody else has already mapped out for me. It doesn't matter how much I think things over, how much effort I put into it. In fact, the harder I try, the more I lose sense of who I am. It's like my identity's an orbit I strayed away from, and that really hurts. But more than that, it scares me. Just thinking about it makes me flinch." _

(199.)

* * *

“You’re off early.”

Yamaguchi skids down the hall, stumbling over to his own locker. “Glad I caught you in time.”

He waits for his friend to slip into his outdoor shoes, depositing his school ones. Yamauguchi knocks the tip of his shoe against the floor, securing it in place before taking quick strides to his side.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?”

“Ennoshita let us off for the day. He doesn’t want us to fall behind in class.” They pass through the gates.

“How thoughtful,” he says dryly. He isn’t entirely sure what he was going for. It’s become second nature, almost. Instinctive auto-pilot he never noticed, something he can’t help. It’s a bit like that one setting you installed without reading the instructions.

“I also needed some help with literature,” Yamaguchi says as he stares up at the sky. “You’re pretty much an expert in it.”

Tsukishima lets his gaze travel down the road. “It’s just analysis.”

“I usually just write about how it makes me feel. That’s a pretty decent way to look at it, isn’t it?”

“That’s one aspect of theory.” Yamaguchi looks over to him for an explanation. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Literature is relative to four aspects: the universe, the author, the audience, and to itself. Using your emotional response is a good way to analyze it, in accordance to the third aspect with you being the person receiving the medium, but it’s still too subjective. Ideally, you’d want to be able to utilize all four aspects when it comes to analysis and critique.”

Tsukishima looks over to his friend, wincing when he catches an expression painted in shades of awe and smugness. He pushes his glasses up from where they dropped down the bridge of his nose. “Spit it out.”

Yamaguchi clicks his fingers, “the literary prodigy, Tsukishima Kei!”

“I don’t even write,” Tsukishima says. “There’s nothing genius about analysis. It’s right in front of your eyes, people just often just fail to observe.”

“You say that like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.”

“Because it is.”

“A very genius thing to say,” Yamaguchi chimes, swinging his arms out and about. He’s been influenced by the Hinata too much. “Where’d you learn all that, anyway. I don’t remember it being discussed in class.”

He shrugs, “I stumbled across it somewhere.” Stumbled upon a late night call with a certain nosy university student who lives in a city four hours away, that is.

“What do you do with all that knowledge in your head, Tsukki?” Yamaguchi asks, genuinely interested if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. “Do you splurge it out on your essays? Do you write it down in a journal or something? If I was that smart I’d probably never shut up. I’d go on and on at the podium for a Nobel Peace prize for inventing… well inventing something.”

“You speak as though you aren’t one of the top scorers for maths.”

Yamaguchi protests, “but maths is all about numbers. Anyone can do it if they figure out the formulas well enough. Literature is so profound, you know? It’s like art! Not everyone can be good at it.”

“You’re looking into it too much,” Tsukishima says, kicking a rock down the descent. “And like I said, I’m not a genius. My thoughts are no one else’s concern.”

“I think you’d be a pretty good writer, Tsukki. Maybe a literature professor or something.” Tsukishima reaches over to open his gate, holding it out for his friend before cutting in before Yamaguchi can pass. Yamaguchi feigns shock.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Tadashi!” Akiteru calls, adding  _ kun  _ at the end. He pops his head through the kitchen doorway. Tsukishima shakes his head as he kicks off his shoes and unwinds his scarf. He doesn’t know when it started to get so cold. “Fancy seeing you here so soon.”

“I need help from the literature wizard.” Yamaguchi says back, tucking his shoes to the side, pointing them in the direction of the door. “Pardon the intrusion!”

Tsukishima pushes Akiteru’s forehead with his pointer finger, successfully shoving him back into the kitchen. He steps into the living room, placing his bag down to find his friend doing the same. Yamaguchi takes out his textbooks, laying them out to him. His phone vibrates inaudibly in his pocket.

_ My student is growing up so fast. _

He scoffs. Yamaguchi does not seem to notice as he flicks through his books for the particular page. Tsukishima shakes his head, both at the text and the little star tabs that are definitely from Yachi.

“Just like the good old days.”

Tsukishima looks up from twirling his mechanical pencil from between his fingers. “You’re going to burn the house down at this rate.”

Akiteru ignores him. “It’s been too long since you’ve invited Tadashi over - “

“Since Yamaguchi invited himself,” Tsukishima corrects. Yamaguchi looks a little sheepish from across the coffee table.

“You’re always cooped up in your room reading books or talking to that upperclassman from Tokyo.”

His phone vibrates. He subtly checks the notification on his screen.

_ Wait I forgot to tell you - _

Tsukishima inhales deeply through his nose when Yamaguchi perks up.

“An upperclassman from Tokyo?”

“What kind of a friend are you, Kei?” Akiteru says, sarcastic. “You’ve known each other since primary school and Yamaguchi doesn’t know about your friend from Tokyo?”

Yamaguchi gasps dramatically, “have you replaced me, Tsukki?”

“All you need to do is research about the author and the time period and you’ll be fine for the quiz.”

His older brother crosses his arms, “he’s avoiding the question.”

Tsukishima has to resist the urge to pull out strands of his hair. He weighs down his voice, keeping it flat and perfectly still. “Neither of you need to know about every single aspect of my life.”

Both of them laugh, oblivious to the atmosphere. Tsukishima does not know what to make of the situation.

“I think that’s all for now anyway. Thanks again, Tsukki!” Yamaguchi gathers his belongings.

“Oh Tadashi, isn’t Karasuno playing a tournament soon?”

“Yeah, in a couple of days actually.”

Tsukishima stands to walk Yamaguchi out the door. Akiteru goes back to check on whatever he had been cooking, calling after them to wish Yamaguchi luck. Yamaguchi responds back in a similarly enthusiastic manner.

“Say, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima quirks an eyebrow, signaling his friend to continue as he ties his shoelaces.

“What’ve you been dreaming about lately?”

“Nothing you should be concerned with.”

Yamaguchi nods. “Sorry.” He stands, shouldering his green school bag. “I was just wondering if you saw anything… about the game that is.”

Yamaguchi’s knuckles are paler from his grip on the edge of the mahogany. He looks up at Tsukishima almost hopelessly - like a sailor craning his head into the distance in search of a lighthouse. There was nothing but open sea.

Tsukishima lets out a slow breath. “I haven’t.” He continues when Yamaguchi ducks his head as though he was Atlas accepting the weight of the world on his shoulders. “But even if I did, you shouldn’t need to rely on such ambiguous dealings. There is always a fifty-fifty chance of winning and losing so dreams are pointless. You play and showcase what you’ve trained for. It all comes down to what happens.”

“I guess you’re right.” Yamaguchi stands, tapping his shoes against the floor.

“You’ll do fine.” Tsukishima says, awkward. He’s never understood how his upperclassmen were so enthusiastic about encouragement. “Just do what you can and accept the statistics.”

Despite his blankness, Yamaguchi seems to brighten up a little. “Thanks, Tsukki.”

There’s a final wave before Yamaguchi disappears out the door.

* * *

_ “Nobody likes being alone that much. I don't go out of my way to make friends, that's all. It just leads to disappointment.” _

* * *

_ Sorry about that, it slipped my mind. _

_ Should have warned you beforehand. _

_ It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. _

_ You okay? _

_ It’s alright. _

_ It’s nothing major or anything. _

_ Just typical conversation. _

_ I see. _

_ Sorry, again. _

_ You seemed a little uncomfortable. _

Tsukishima leans into his pillow, replaying the scene over and over in his head. He bits the inside of his cheek.

_ Our friendship isn’t a secret or anything. _

_ If that’s what you were worried about. _

_ You make us sound like a forbidden romance, Tsukishima. _

_ Just like Romeo and Juliet ;D _

_ I shouldn’t have answered your text. _

_ You couldn’t resist being away from me for so long~ _

_ You sounded depressed. _

_ Just checking up on you. _

_ Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable because I couldn’t warn you in time. _

_ Or just uncomfortable in general. _

_ It’s the reality that comes with these dreams. _

_ But I’m alright. Don’t worry yourself. _

_ If you say so. _

The chat disappears and is replaced with an empty icon, underneath it are the words  _ Kuroo  _ and  _ Incoming Call.  _ Tsukishima swipes to answer it, plugging his headphones in before he utters the first hello.

_ “Deadpan as ever, glad to know you sound alright.” _

He scoffs, “Why wouldn’t I?”

_ “I’m just kidding you. You aren’t the emotional type, anyway. I was about to cook some food so it’d be easier for me to talk to you over call.” _

Tsukishima reaches over for a book on his bedside table, listening to the faint sounds of kitchenware and footsteps. There’s a bit of music playing in the background too. It takes a little while for him to recognize it as  _ Love of My Life  _ by  _ Queen. _

“Please don’t tell me you’re cooking pasta.”

_ “Hm? Why would I be?”  _ He hears the sound of plastic tearing. Kuroo must be cooking ramen.

“Because then you’d fit the heartbroken romantic image perfectly and I’d have every right to never let you live it down.”

_ “That’s foul, Tsukishima.” _ There’s an audible cringe in Kuroo’s tone. He stifles a laugh at the image in his mind.  _ “While most people would find that endearing, I myself as you should already know, find it quite overdone. Laughable, almost.” _

“You don’t find sad poetry, music, and professions even the slightest bit endearing?” Tsukishima asks, sarcastic. Kuroo guffaws.

_ “Definitely not. It’s amusing and pitiful at the same time. You’d think it’s just for gags until you realize people are  _ actually  _ serious about it. I don’t know how they can spend so much time fixated on someone - or well, the  _ idea  _ of someone. Didn’t Shakespeare say something about it? Something like ‘if a man writes a woman a few sonnets, he loves her. But if he writes three-hundred sonnets - he just likes writing sonnets.’” _

“Most people are just fixated on the romanticized idea of love and tragedy. I guess it’s mostly because it’s what’s most popular in the media nowadays, which also has something to do with the profitability of it under the concept you just quoted.”

Water pours on the other end of the line.  _ “We’re back to the conversation we had a while back. Speaking of which - I think I might have found another insight from a credible source.” _

Tsukishima turns a page, “that being?”

_ “Love, in the words of the man known as Sensei, is a sin.”  _ The stove switches off. He imagines the flames disappearing within the blink of an eye.  _ “It took me a while to realize love would be a central topic to the book. It  _ is  _ named  _ Kokoro,  _ after all.” _

_ Love is a sin.  _ It’s a strange notion to consider. Tsukishima wonders if it has something to do with greed, perhaps when it is turned on its head to become lust. But he waits for Kuroo’s explanation while he transfers his meal into a bowl.

_ “The narrator asks Sensei what he means by it. Sensei explains that love gives you a sense of restlessness. Despite the narrator expressing that his heart bears no such object of affection, Sensei says that he is restless precisely because he’d want to find that object in order to attain peace.”  _ There’s a quiet clap followed by giving thanks.  _ “I haven’t made it through most of the book yet considering there are a hundred and ten or so chapters, but I have a hunch it’ll probably make sense along the way.” _

“Is that to say that Sensei believes love is a bad thing?”

_ “No. No, not necessarily. He’s a pretty aged character and very philosophical. He’s quite guarded too, as the narrator often points out quite often.” _

He sets his book down, letting his gaze wander to nothing in particular. “Do you agree, then? Do you think love can be seen as a sin?”

_ “I don’t think it’s the sin that split Aristotle’s world of three into what it is now, no.”  _ Kuroo pauses.  _ “I think Sensei’s choice of words are something similar to your parents passing you wisdom a bit off-handedly. More often than not, they haven’t got the articulation to template them as well as they’d meant to. Maybe it’s just an over amplified statement on Sensei’s part. As for my own thoughts, I think love in the ‘purest form’ we deduced earlier on isn’t a bad thing. If we look outside the boundaries of romantic love then I don’t think it’s much of a sin. We all have family and friends we care about and that kind of love, in my eyes, is pretty good and a lot better than what’s often marketed as romance.” _

“A model son, you are.” Tsukishima comments. Kuroo chuckles over the phone. “Maybe romantic love could be considered a bit of a sin if it makes you forget about the love you’ve already grown up with.”

There’s sniffling on the other end. “What?”

_ “Sorry, but that was very mature of you to say,”  _ Kuroo feigns awe.  _ “Our late bloomer is slowly blossoming into a young man!” _

Tsukishima ends the call.

The icon appears again.

He sighs and picks it up on the third ring.

_ “Okay, okay I’ll stop,”  _ Kuroo’s laughter fades.  _ “That’s enough of me. How are things on your end?” _

“Bland,” Tsukishima says, honest. He cranes his head to peek through the gaps in the curtains. “And cold. You’d probably already know that given how nosy you are.”

Kuroo sets his chopsticks down on his bowl.  _ “It is almost the end of October. It was bound to get colder sooner or later. And for the record, I can’t help the dreams I get. You’re pretty nosy about your dreams too, you know. That’s exactly how we met.” _

“An impulsive decision, really.” He thinks Kuroo is sticking his tongue out at him.

_ “You’re secretly glad we met again, I can tell,” _ Tsukishima scoffs, rolling his eyes.  _ “Even if you won’t admit it, I for one, am glad we met again.” _

_ You shouldn’t be,  _ Tsukishima thinks to himself. It’s reflexive, automatic. He gives himself credit for not saying it out loud. “Your loss, sap.”

_ “No need to be flustered,” _ Kuroo replies with desaturated humour. It’s probably due to the connection.  _ “How’s the book going so far?” _

Tsukishima’s gaze falls on the book resting on his lap. “It’s interesting. It’s a lot but I like it. I just finished  _ Mirror _ and I found it pretty amusing. The ending is somewhat predictable, but not necessarily in a bad way. I think the journey reaching the end was pretty good since I haven’t read anything that was meant to be horror-esque. I did have to skip over to  _ Firefly,  _ but I didn’t have the time to read much of it.”

_ “That’s alright. School work’s bound to pile up at this point. You seem to be enjoying it so that’s what matters.” _

“That’s true,” he says quietly. “Thank you, again, by the way.”

_ “What for?” _

_ A lot of things _ , he thinks to himself.  _ A lot of things he still cannot find the words for. A lot of things he isn't sure he can bring himself to admit.  _ “For the book, I mean.”

Kuroo lets out a breathless laugh.  _ “Anytime. And I should be thanking you too, you know.” _

He does.

_ “I’m gonna go study for a bit. Are you just going to read for now?” _

He sits up to lean against the headboard. “Pretty much.”

_ “I’ll have to head off then. Wouldn’t want you to sit through me trying to wrack my brains and rip my soul out.” _

“I’ll take up that offer,” Tsukishima replies, amused.

_ “Catch you later, Tsukishima.” _

This time, he ends the call first.

* * *

_ To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, _

_ For in that sleep of death what dreams may come _

_ When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, _

_ Must give us pause. There’s the respect _

_ That makes calamity of so long life. _

(Act 3 Scene 1 Page 138.)

* * *

_ There is shouting. _

_ The noise filters out around him, there is nothing but movement - constant movement. _

_ Rubber squeaks against the floor; collisions echo loudly throughout the court. Physics asserts its existence. Projectiles launched, received. Velocities adjusted. Inertia persisting ever so stubborn. _

_ There are names being called out. They blur together in a chaos of syllables. They’re something like those Jackson Pollock paintings - splotches of colour without direction all colliding, contrasting, all full of meanings he isn’t entirely sure are there anymore. There’s hints of desperation, hope, aguish, turmoil, pain - so much pain. _

_ There is addiction. _

_ There is a rise that defies seems to defy all the laws of Newton. There is a rise that defies gravity and everything keeping humanity from reaching the stars. He sees dreams, aspirations, and boundless amounts of energy invested into them. Into being able to remain along the clouds. The crowd cheers, like they always do. Or they are stunned into silence, into a awe. _

_ Into a false sense of security. _

_ And then comes the fall. _

_ The bottle hits the floor and glass in all too many colours shatters. The centre of the Earth pulls you six-feet under. They all become breathless in the atmosphere that demands their air. The storms come, the rain pours, and pours and pours. _

_ Just like that, gravity returns. Dreams crash. Reality settles among the debris. _

_ The ball falls. It hits the wrong side of the court. _

_ The paint dries, colours meaningless. Pain follows onto the grave, never to be immortalized. The mighty fall and the silences lapses. It breaks profoundly, loudly - the world is laughing at the joke and you are the punchline.  _

_ The laughter evaporates, the meanings expire, and the words fail. _

_ It’s all over now. _

.

Tsukishima opens his eyes. The ceiling is blue from above him.

Sheets crumple when he sits up, burying his blurry face in his hands. He knows better than this, knows that it does nothing to keep the images from his mind away, but in the quiet hours of dawn he will allow himself the briefest ignorance.

He reaches over for the notebook, uncapping the pen with his other hand. The cover falls somewhere beside him but he can’t be bothered.

A lifetime ago, he would have found these words condemning. Every stroke would be another engraving spelling out the end, just like names on a gravestone. But he’s come to terms with it now. These dreams were made to encapsulate immovable realities. They were made to taunt him of futures he could not change, to amplify his own humanity.

The notebook hits the floor with a dull thud, the pen joining it soon after. His back meets the bed in a similar manner. There’s nothing else he can do now.

For a while, all Tsukishima can do is stare at the blankness. He isn’t sure what he wants other than to slip through the crevices and fade soundly into oblivion. He’s caught in the divide, in the abyss.

Tsukishima turns his gaze to the door. The little knob is twisted clockwise. There is no light seeping from beneath the wood, no sounds echoing from down the hall.

The dawn finds him in darkness.

* * *

_ “When I was fifteen, I thought there had to be a place like that in the world. I was sure that somewhere I’d run across the entrance that would take me to another world.” _

(252.)

* * *

He doesn’t have clouds to name that day.

The sky is a clear blue and the trees are changing colours. Somewhere along the way, they tell him autumn has arrived. He blinks a moment later and suddenly the chill persists a little more and everyone is expecting the first snowfall.

When do the seasons change? When did they go from first years to second years - when did they mature enough to fit into the role of upperclassmen? When did the world decide to keep turning? When did he decide to close his eyes and walk down well-worn paths? When did he find himself at the roads diverged by a yellow wood and chose, without remorse, the road already taken?

Tsukishima stares back at the chalkboard full of questions they were all meant to answer and wonders about his own.

The teacher calls on someone to recite. It takes a beat for him to realize it’s Yamaguchi. He’s a little shaken, per usual, but he strings together what seems to be a coherent answer (though Tsukishima does not manage to catch his words. Everything is slowly blurring together in his mind).

Yamaguchi takes his seat, putting a hand over his heart as he exhales. Tsukishima faintly registers the sound of his own name. His movements are slower now, like the world has been turned down - or maybe it’s just him.

He expounds on Yamaguchi’s answer as their teacher asks of him. Tsukishima says what he knows until it’s deemed fit. From a seat diagonal to him, Yamaguchi gives him a thumbs up and a silent clap. He thinks he’s mouthing something like “I told you so.”

Tsukishima gives a noncommittal response and turns back toward the window.

* * *

_ Romeo: _

_ I dreamt a dream last night. _

_ Mercutio: _

_ As did I. _

_ Romeo: _

_ Well, what was yours? _

_ Mercutio: _

_ That dreamers often lie. _

* * *

“Kei!”

He’s accosted at the door. Akiteru causes his bag to topple over in the rush. His shoes barely make it off his feet when he’s dragged into the kitchen. His brother is still jumping around like a drunkard. Tsukishima peers over at his cheeks, trying to make out the alcoholic flush from them. He finds nothing but merriment.

That is until the can Akiteru pries open begins foaming around the lid. His brother offers it to him, forcing it into his grasp when he shows the initial signs of refusal.

“Where’s mum?” he asks, subtly turning away to place the can on by the kitchen sink when Akiteru turns away to take an unhealthy swig from his own. He’d fit right into those cliche college movies. 

Akiteru sighs loudly once he finishes. “Went to visit some of her friends,” he takes another swig. Tsukishima eyes any possible escape routes. “Celebrate with me, Kei!”

“I’d rather not,” Tsukishima says, unable to stop his older brother from reaching for the can he had opened for him. He winces when he crushes it in his hand. “I’ve got class tomorrow and someone needs to make sure this house stays in one piece before mum gets home.”

“Don’t be so uptight, little brother. You should learn to live a little.”

Tsukishima scoffs, “I’m planning to ensure a future ahead of me, thank you very much.”

“But you should be happy right now! Karasuno won their games today! They’re definitely going to make it through to Nationals.” Akiteru raises his fist, grinning madly.

Tsukishima doesn’t have to reach very far to grab the cans from his hand, walking over to the corner to toss it into the bin, debating on how he’s going to tell their mother about Akiteru’s unholy beer stash he stores in his room. His brother is no drunkard or anything, but just as this scene portrays, his little habit tends to cause a hiccup every now and again. Both literal and metaphorical.

“You should just go to Tanaka’s house to celebrate.”

“But then no one would be here to take care of my little brother,” Akiteru replies, dopey.

“I can manage well enough on my own, thanks.” Tsukishima reaches for a glass, positioning his body to keep the fridge open as he pours some water. He hands it over to Akiteru. “It won’t make a difference if you aren’t sober. Here, you’ll thank me later.”

His brother takes the water in tiny sips. He feels a lecture coming along. The beer isn’t even that alcoholic, but it seems the very act further cements the idea of coming of age, alongside the conflation of such notion being equated to wisdom.

“You’re always thinking ahead, you know that?”

“Evidently, one of us has to.”

“But there’s something I don’t get,” Akiteru drinks a little more. “You’re always planning ahead, but you’re just lazing around. You aren’t going to any club activities, you aren’t even considering universities, and you haven’t even decided what you wanted to do. This isn’t like you, Kei.”

He side steps to the door, taking the straps of his bag in his hand, visualizing a clear path to his room. “I’m still a second year. I’ll decide when I have to.”

“That’s exactly my point,” he hears the sound of glass against the counter. “You never leave things up to when you have to make the decision, especially not something as important as this.”

“Did you switch courses? You should go back to your major,  _ nii-san.  _ Your psychoanalysis still needs a lot of work.”

Akiteru’s gaze softens. Tsukishima feels his own features crease. “Why are you being so defensive?”

“There is nothing defensive about this conversation,” he says, flat. What is Akiteru trying to play? What is his motive? It shouldn’t be that difficult to decipher.

His brother takes a step forward. He isn’t sure if it’s conscious or not. “You’re doing that thing again, where you try to intellectualize the conversation to diffuse the issue.”

“There is no issue  _ to  _ be diffused.”

“I know something is wrong, Kei. We’re brothers, you can’t hide that from me.”

He turns his heel. “I have a quiz soon, I’m going up to study.”

“Kei,” there’s a faint grip on his thin wrist. “Don’t treat this like some Shakespearean tragedy and tell me what’s wrong.”

“ _ Well everything is wonderful! I eat the air, like chameleons do. I’m positively stuffed with air, I eat so much of it! _ ” He swipes his arm away, Akiteru does not resist. “Are you satisfied?”

“If that were the truth, yes.” Akiteru says evenly. “But we both know that was far from it.”

“Well, if the truth will set you free - or  _ me  _ free, for that matter then here it is,” Tsukishima looks his older brother dead in the eye, reciting the words written on the gravestone. “They’re going to lose.”

A droplet from the sink echoes loudly. It replays over and over in his mind for the few eternities that pass for the expression on Akiteru’s face to morph into an expression he can’t exactly place. It echoes from different angles, different perspectives. It’s a single drop, and yet, it rings so clearly.

“How?” Akiteru asks, breathlessly. “When?”

“I don’t know - “

Akiteru steps aside, his fingers reaching for strands of his hair. “How long have you known?”

_ Always have,  _ he thinks to himself. The words barely articulate when Akiteru continues his tirade.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Tsukishima stands his ground. “What difference would it have made?”

“What kind of questio - it would have made  _ all  _ the difference, Kei!” Akiteru scans the room frantically. He starts pacing in place. “We have to tell them. We can tell them - tell me exactly what happened in your dream - we can stop it.”

He uses his frame to block the door, faintly noting the sense of irony. Akiteru stares up at him helplessly.

“We can’t just do nothing.”

“We aren’t doing nothing. We’re breathing, going about our days, and fulfilling the basic necessities expected of us as people.”

“There has to be a way to stop it,” Akiteru pleads, “we can’t just leave them for themselves.”

_ Does that mean you’re the ace? _

“It was something that was bound to happen.” Tsukshima says. “No matter how hard you train there is always the inevitable possibility of failure - of loss. It wasn’t as though they were initially destined to win in the first place.”

“But - “

_ The ball rebounds, caught in steady hands. Tsukishima had only seen the faintly lit profile of his older brother’s back. _

“There is no other way around it,” it’s harsher than he intends, but the situation is getting too irrational, too out of hand. “You of all people should know that.”

_ Yeah, I guess it does, Akiteru had said with an unmistakable look on his face. Tsukishima hadn’t doubted him. Even if he had the faintest suspicions, he would have saved them for another time. _

Akiteru stares at him numbly, his lips parted devoid of any words to say. He almost looks like those statues in the museum, crafted to depict some level of somberness but unlike them, he does not lack the living, breathing reality of the unspoken truth.

Akiteru moves to step past him. Tsukishima gives way.

“Dinner’s in the fridge,” his brother says ghostly.

“I’ll be up in my room, then.”

_ It’s another time. _

They part ways under the same roof.

* * *

_ Just by looking at that happy smile, you can trace the beautiful path that a connected heart must follow. Like a firefly’s glow that persists long after it’s disappeared into the darkness. _

_ (223.) _

* * *

“You alright there?”

He fights his eyes open, clinging onto the faint voice that materialized beside him. He finds a pair of warm eyes just centimetres away from his own.

“I always wondered if someone could dream about sleeping.”

Tsukishima lifts his head from where it was on the table, rubbing the cheek that was pressed against the surface. “How long has it been?”

“Not more than twenty minutes, that’s for sure.” Kuroo says from the seat beside him. “I just got here so it wasn’t anything too bad. You’ve really been out of it these days, and this is your own mind, after all.”

“You seem to be too at home here,” Tsukishima adds. “You’ve probably got your own plant here or something equally as absurd.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure you’d allow dogs in your mind library. I think I should get a plant. I could name it Kafka or something.” He leans an arm on the table, raising his legs to squat on the chair. “Pretext aside, you look like you’ve had a rough day.”

Tsukishima laughs, “as I usually do, apparently.”

“Give yourself more credit, Tsukishima. We both know that isn’t true.”

“Do we?”

There’s a twitch of a smirk on Kuroo’s lips. “I think that’s enough patronization for you, dear junior. It’s time for you to let out what’s on your mind. If you’d like to, of course.” 

“Do you always do that?” he mirrors Kuroo’s words from many conversations ago. In a less conscious manner, Kuroo echoes his own. “Do you always ask if people are fine with sharing their thoughts?”

_ “It doesn’t seem different to me. Your ideas are important to me precisely because they’re a product of your past. If the two things are separated, they become virtually worthless as far as I can see. I can’t be satisfied with being offered a lifeless doll that has no breath of soul in it.” _ Kuroo clicks his fingers. “That’s from  _ kokoro,  _ by the way. I honestly don’t know how you can store all those quotes in your head. With that aside, I’m asking to make sure you’re willing to explain it to me, whether it be some random idea or something bothering you. Your thoughts and ideas contain elements of your experiences, and people typically tend to guard them unconsciously precisely because of that fact.”

“That’s a plausible explanation.” Tsukishima replies, taking a breath. “I was just thinking about the future.”

“As you often are?”

“In a sense, yes,” he stares ahead toward the line of shelves, letting his gaze draw further and further down the paths of his mind. He finds the shadows of places he has long left untouched, unnoticed. “Kuroo.”

“Hm?”

He traces the outlines of a distant wall. “Have you ever dreamt of the distant future, say five or ten years from now.”

“If you’re asking if I’ve dreamt about my own future then no.” Tsukshima meets his gaze.

“And of mine?”

Kuroo crosses his arms, letting his own gaze wander up at the endless ceiling. “You get a nice office job that pays really well and a nice wife who you come home to. As for children, I wouldn’t be able to say.”

Tsukishima feels the shock paint itself on his features. He’s surprised he doesn’t knock himself off the chair when he snaps sharply to face Kuroo fully.

He isn’t sure what to think when Kuroo bursts out laughing.

“I’m sorry! The look on your face just - “ Kuroo doubles over, pounding his fist into the table. He looks to be on the verge of tears. He wheezes, catching his breath. “I’m sorry, Tsukishima but you looked so scandalized!”

He pinches himself a little too hard. “Someone wake me from this nightmare. I can’t take it anymore.”

“You look like you’ve bruised yourself,” Kuroo reaches over to examine his arm, tears of mirth still in his eyes and the remnants of humour still lingering in his tone. “I don’t think you’ve managed to hurt yourself in the real world.”

“It’ll be a self reminder to not to trust you again.”

Kuroo pats the red spot on his skin lightly, “nonsense. I’ll have to go over and bandage it.” He sighs. “But you said you hated your dreams and that they weren’t reliable, so what difference would it have made if what I said was true? You’ve got the power over your own future, y’know.”

Tsukishima shifts his arm away, but the warmth of Kuroo’s hand remains, anchoring him. “Even if you don’t take my word for it then at least trust my intuition. I know full well that you’re going to have a good life ahead of you. I don’t think you’re doomed with some weird prophecy or anything superstitious like that. You’re a smart, honest, competent guy who doesn’t give himself enough credit. You weigh your efforts and investments carefully and excel in most things, which is a feat for most people but second nature to you. I think you’d be able to do a lot more if you let yourself go a little.”

Kuroo is looking at him way too sincerely. It makes him fidget a bit out of habit. He unwrings his fingers, offering a light-hearted scoff in an effort to lift the atmosphere. “Was that your vision of a good life, then?”

“Well, that’s the ideal Japanese vision, isn’t it? A stable job and a good spouse,” Kuroo goes along with it in far more fashioned skill. “But it can be however you want it to be, convention is pretty stale, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” he repeats it twice, unsure of who he’s trying to convince. 

“Besides, I don’t think you’re the type to get married young.”

He scoffs, “and you are?”

“No, no definitely not,” Kuroo raises his hands to prove his point. “I’d probably want to settle down comfortably first. Just to stand for myself and all.”

“And then you’ll get a dog?”

Golden eyes practically beam at him. “You know me too well, Tsukishima! Now you’re making me fantasize.” Kuroo gushes, slumping over the table dramatically, wailing audibly.

“You sound like a dying whale.”

Kuroo shoots upright, raising his arms up like a man praising the moon. “But my son! Can’t you picture it? Coming home to a ball of fluff running into your arms? Somehow, adulthood doesn’t seem as bleak anymore.”

“You have,” Tsukishima starts, trying to find his words, “really simple aspirations.”

It amazes him how quickly Kuroo can sober up from his high. “I’m not a very goal oriented person. I just take what life throws at me. I do things like, test my interests and all. I’m not plotting world domination or anything. I just want to live life to the fullest - keep things interesting.” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “That would probably explain the simplicity of the future I imagine. But that’s what makes the vision I imagine so appealing, don’t you think?”

Tsukishima picks at the skin of the tip of his index finger, “I never liked surprises much.”

“Then it’ll be a lot easier for you, won’t it?” Kuroo adds, leaning forward slightly. “Having a concrete vision makes it a lot easier to figure out what you want to do. It’s like having the ending fleshed out in front of you, now all you need to do is figure out the way to get there. I don’t imagine it’ll be difficult for you.”

“Don’t most people end up wasting futile effort for such a far fetched dream? And even if they do manage to accomplish it, don’t most find it unsatisfactory in the end?” He asks, rhetoric. 

Kuroo answers instantaneously, “but you aren’t most people.” He smiles, “are you not?”

Tsukishima averts his eyes to the ground where the table casts its shadow. 

“Perhaps.”

He follows Kuroo toward another line of shelves. They share idle conversation before they pick their own stories to occupy themselves with. They don’t read for long, especially with Kuroo’s habit of striking a discussion (more often than not a debate) after a few pages. This time, Kuroo settles on talking at length, both about literature and just anything that comes to mind.

Tsukishima has his back against one of the shelves, squatting across from where Kuroo is sitting on the floor. Kuroo gestures animatedly, never running out of anything to say.

Somehow, Kuroo looks different. It’s like thinking about a word so much you begin questioning its very existence. Watching Kuroo so lively reminds him of the fact that Kuroo has his own life. His own past, memories and experiences. He has his own secrets, goals, and thoughts Tsukishima will probably never get to know about. He has a future full of possibilities, one he can pave for himself in his unconventionality.

It reminds him of how young they both really are, and how Kuroo still has a life far ahead of him.

He doesn’t remember the joke or the punchline, but he does remember laughing until his abdominal muscles screamed at him. Kuroo was no better, practically rolling on the narrow space between the shelves.

When his own laughter evaporates and the dream comes to a close, Tsukishima finds himself Kuroo, still lingering in his own amusement. He traces the crinkles in by his eyes and the lines of his laugh.

He traces the outlines of Kuroo’s humanity, of his happiness and youth.

And he aches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of wonder if people theorize about what's going to happen next for this fic. If you have any theories/analyses then feel free to chuck them at me haha
> 
> [the post that pieced it all together a few months back](https://twitter.com/zygosoji/status/1367868994884005889?s=21)  
> thank you for making it this far :) I'll try to keep to the posting sched as best as I can

**Author's Note:**

> to be continued
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/zygosoji)  
> 


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